The Kidon
by Ominous Vagueness
Summary: Ron Stoppable has followed his best friend, teen-hero Kim Possible, around the world for years. Despite "saving the world" many times, he has been largely overlooked in favor for the beautiful heroine. He's fine with that. Ron's anonymity makes it easier for him to do his real job.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer; I do not own the Kim Possible, or anything related to the television series.  
**

* * *

 **The Kidon**

 **Chapter One**

 **Prologue  
**

* * *

The hotel the Assassin checked into was neither large nor small, it was not particularly inexpensive, nor particularly luxurious; it was almost completely average. This suited the Assassin just fine. He was not in Paris for the sights, the culture, or even the food… the Assassin was there to do a job, and then leave.

Although he noted an elevator as he walked past the tired hotel clerk, the Assassin instead took the stairs to his second-floor room, moving fluidly despite the extremely early hour and the weight of his newly acquired duffle bag. Even though he had spent the entire night on a trans-Atlantic flight, the Assassin had slept well.

As he moved silently down the hallway, the Assassin automatically catalogued the entrances and exits of the building. Further orienting himself with the hotel and reaffirming his escape routes. Not there were many in a hotel that mainly catered to tourists and businessmen, but still, the Assassin liked to be as prepared as possible.

Once in his room he closed the door and pulled a pistol from his duffle bag. Chambering a round as he went, the Assassin did a thorough sweep of his room. Under the freshly-made bed, in the empty closet, and in the undecorated bathroom. Satisfied, he placed the duffel onto the bed and pulled a second tool from the bag.

This device was a solid-looking piece of tech that resembled an old Nintendo Game Boy. It was a sensor, a piece of equipment that the Assassin had been assured would pick up on any outgoing signals near the room. Again, the assassin searched his room. This time pulling open drawers and checking behind furniture for explosives while his tech worked its magic.

He didn't really think that he would find any bombs in his hotel room. For one thing, he hadn't known that he would be coming to France until less than 24 hours ago. That wasn't nearly enough time for knowledge of his operation to become known… especially at the high level of secrecy and paranoia he and his handlers worked in. For another thing, the Assassin knew that no competent demolitionist would bother to sneak a bomb into his room when they could simply rent one of the four rooms surrounding his and plant a shaped charge.

That would be a much better way to kill someone.

Still, there were plenty of incompetent bombers, and it would suck to be killed by an amateur. So, the Assassin looked in the toilet tank, and after finding zilch, he deemed the room passably secure.

After that the Assassin did what any traveler does in a hotel room after a long flight. He used the toilet, showered, changed into street clothes, and grabbed the things he would need for the day.

The Assassin brought many of the things any normal tourist would with him: a phone, money, identification (although his I.D. was fake), and a map. The only "tools" he brought with him were the pistol and extra magazines he carried in a shoulder-holster, and the folding knife he kept in the front pocket of his jeans.

Again, the Assassin made his way silently down the stairs and into the lobby. There were more people in the lobby now. It was later in the morning and people were checking in and checking out; as people tend to do in hotels. No one saw the Assassin.

There were less than ten people in the lobby, including two jet-lagged preteens and a sleeping baby, and yet no one so much as looked up as the Assassin casually made his way through them. He blended in so naturally that it wouldn't have mattered if there were only two other people in the room; he still would have gone unnoticed.

It was one of his gifts. One of the reasons his handlers had been so eager to recruit him. The Assassin simply had a genius for camouflage. It was perhaps his greatest asset in the field. Witnesses (not that there were many) didn't remember him, bystanders overlooked him, and his adversaries didn't recognize him until it was far too late.

He had once spent all day in a garden café in Syria waiting for a terrorist financier. By the time the Assassin's target arrived it was late evening, and the only other people that remained in the café were an elderly couple and himself. Once the target arrived with his two-man security team, the Assassin ordered a plate of baklava. When the terrorist went to use the toilet -accompanied by one of his bodyguards- the Assassin finished the last piece of his dessert and easily slipped underneath the radar of the bodyguard that had remained to watch three diners. The Assassin then found the bodyguard waiting for his principle outside the restroom. He casually leaned against the wall as if simply waiting for his turn to make use of the single-toilet restroom, until he saw the doorknob begin to turn.

Turning calmly to face the bodyguard -as if to comment on the nice weather they were having- the Assassin plunged a stiletto switchblade into the bodyguard's ear. As the door opened the Assassin position himself carefully, and when the door was wide enough he stepped into the room while simultaneously stabbing his knife directly into his target's heart. Then he dragged the bodyguard' dead body into the bathroom, wiped his knife clean of blood, and washed his hands. The Assassin concluded his operation by casually walking back into the garden café and asking for another cup of tea and his bill.

The Assassin was very good at what he did. Also, it had been _very_ good tea.

As he walked into crisp Parisian air, the Assassin wished he had a hot cup of tea with him now. Indeed, almost any hot beverage would have been nice. While winter had left Paris, spring had yet to arrive. It was chill in the way you only truly appreciate if you had to stand outside all day. Like the Assassin had to.

He walked through the Parisian streets, away from his hotel, and began his Surveillance-Detection-Route.

A Surveillance-Detection-Route, or an SDR, is a part of spy tradecraft where the operator assumes that he or she is being followed and enacts any number of methods to discover and then lose their tail. Normal procedures are to double back, duck into shops, make many twisting and surprising turns into corners and through alleys, all while maintaining heightened situational awareness.

That's the easy part of an SDR; finding a tail. The hard part was remaining anonymous while you did it. If they lose a tail in an obvious way, then the operator will have given away their position as a player. The trick was to appear totally harmless and unaware while still discovering and evading any potential hostiles.

The Assassin had become so good at this over the years that he liked to add another purpose onto his SDR. Basically, the Assassin liked to go sightseeing. His general feeling was the more you understood the ebbs and flows of an area, the easier it as to blend in.

So that's what he did. He mimicked the few other pedestrians that where on the street; shivering and then sticking his hands into his jacket pockets. He stuck to the sidewalk and was grateful that most of the snow was gone. He didn't turn to look around, he didn't study the architecture, or gawk at the locals, or window-shop at the boutiques. If anyone had paid him the slightest bit of attention, then they would have assumed that he was a local. The Assassin simply appeared to do nothing at all. In fairness, he wasn't exactly in the most interesting part of Paris.

Most of the streets he walked down where like any of the many others he had visited in cities all over the world. Restaurants, cafés, and bars. Shops for clothing, technology, and knick-knacks. Offices for lawyers, real-estate agencies, and insurance agencies. As far as the Assassin could tell, most lived-in parts of cities were essentially more-or-less the same. The only differences between Paris and Bangkok was the language, the weather, and the fact that most of the buildings the Assassin past were two or three stories and built to last.

At a rather busy looking pastry shop the Assassin decided that he would get his breakfast there. He came in, checked his surroundings, ordered and payed for his meal, and then came back out; it took him about three minutes start-to-finish. Instead of continuing the route he had been on, he turned around started walking in the direction he had just come from.

Casually sipping his hot chocolate, the Assassin came to a small park in what had once probably been a vacant lot. Sitting on a park bench facing the walking path, the Assassin pulled out his phone and checked his messages for any mission updates from his handlers. Nothing. Next the Assassin opened his bag of delicious goodies, savoring the smell.

Like most cities, Paris had the under-odor of car exhaust, garbage, and the body odor of thousands and thousands of people living together in close proximity. Intellectually, the Assassin knew that as far as cities went, Paris wasn't that bad. And that given a few days, he himself would probably fail to notice it at all. Still, the Assassin attempted to inhale the scent of his croissants as if they were perfumed flowers… before he hungrily tore into them.

After his meal, he went about his business. He familiarized himself with the landscape, and the people, and as Hemmingway might have said, the movable feast that is Paris. No one followed him.

For first lunch, he had several crepes filled with spinach, mushrooms, and chicken, that he bought from a cheerful looking outdoor stand by the river Seine. For second lunch -which he ate a few hours later- he had something called a jambon-beurre, that he purchased for a corner bakery. It was a sandwich made from a buttered baguette and a slice of well-cooked ham. All his meals were delicious… and the only interactions he had with people for his entire day.

The only thing other than his food the Assassin paid any sort of outward attention to was a large house that he passed twice on the outside of town. It was a large three-story building with barred windows on the ground floor, situated in what was probably going to be a slum in twenty years. It looked as if the architect had been going for majestic, and had finally given up and settled on imposing. It looked larger than it was, and slightly run down despite a recent paint job. The Assassin couldn't help but be reminded of an aging thug who bought an expensive suit in an attempt to class himself up. Same old dirt-bag, brand new suit. That's what this building was. It hadn't been much to start with, and now it was on its way out.

Satisfied with his day so far, the Assassin checked one more thing near the house where his target was being held, and then he returned to the room for a nap. After his rest, he would begin.

* * *

The Assassins eyes snapped open as the alarm on his phone rang. It was midnight. Which meant that it was time for him to get to work.

He took another steaming hot shower. While it wasn't necessary for an operative at his level to mentally prepare himself for combat, he still enjoyed the opportunity for visualization and to get himself in the right headspace for a possible battle. The Assassin was also grateful, and a bit amused, by the fact that he actually had the luxury of a hot shower. In his experience, most operations were about as far from James Bond as you could get! The 5-Star hotels, beautiful women, and martinis were reserved exclusively for his targets… and the Assassin reflected, a few of his superiors.

Still, a warm bed, good food, and a hot shower. These were lavish luxuries that he had forgone countless times for the sake of whatever mission he had been on at the time. So, as he stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, the Assassin resolved to stop his internal bitching and stay on mission.

Dressed in nothing but his boxer-briefs, the Assassin surveyed his gear.

First, he picked up a grappling gun; it was about the same size and shape as a hair-dryer, with a length of Kevlar rope attached to a grappling hook that was capable of being propelled thirty-feet through the air. Inside the Grapple Gun was a motor that can pull over of 250 pounds straight up. When the Grapple Guns were available, and when they worked.

Intelligence, basic psychology, and common sense, suggested that his target would be on the top floor— the most defendable part of nearly any building. Thus, the Grapple Gun was his best chance for a stealthy infiltration. While the Grapple Guns were _fairly_ reliable given exhaustive maintenance -and the Assassin was assured that his had been- there had simply been too many accidents for him to trust them completely.

Next the Assassin field stripped his pistol. It was a Beretta 92G with a threaded barrel. The Assassin sighed audibly as he screwed on the sound suppressor; he would have preferred a Glock, but as the French say, _c'est la vie_.

After the Assassin finished inspecting his 9mm ammunition -they were indeed the subsonic steel-jacketed hollow-points he had been promised- he began to dress. A pair of black leather gloves, pair of black jeans, a black turtleneck, and a pair of black tennis shoes. The Assassin put a multi-tool in one of the pockets of his jeans and his folding knife in the other. Then he put on a lightweight Type II bulletproof vest, which would protect him from everything from shrapnel to a .357 slug. Next, he put on a heavy belt and began to stuff equipment into the pouches that hung off it. His Grappling Gun, a night-vision monocle, a balaclava, a medical kit, and a hypodermic needle filled with a sedative. The Assassin liked to be prepared. Lastly, he shrugged into his shoulder rig, and after chambering a round, slipped the suppressed pistol under his left arm.

As the Assassin left his room he killed the lights. He would not be coming back.

* * *

The Assassin's feet were cold. It was almost three in the morning, so the Assassin supposed that he couldn't complain too much. He still silently cursed himself for not bringing thicker socks. It was still practically winter, and hours after the sun had set, so of course it was going to be frigid.

As the Assassin stealthily made his way toward the target house, all thoughts of cold were shoved from his mind. In fact, all thoughts non-mission related were set aside. The Assassin focused totally on his plan of action and his immediate surroundings. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat calmed, and then he moved.

There was an alley on the Assassin's left side that separated his target's building from the one over. As the Assassin moved into the alley he opened his jacket and drew the Grappling Gun. Then he unceremoniously fired the hook onto the rooftop of the building. The Assassin held his breath as the steel hook made _whoosh_ sound as it was expelled, followed almost immediately by a dull clank. The Assassin activate the motor that would pull him up to his primary entrance: a fairly large third floor window.

When he reached the window, the Assassin was delighted to find it both unbarred and unlocked. Funny, the Assassin had thought that cat burglars would be a bigger deal in France… maybe he had just seen Alfred Hitchcock's _To Catch a Thief_ a few too many times.

In any case, he slipped inside as easily as if he _were_ a professional cat burglar.

The room that the Assassin found himself in was pitch dark. He stayed low, ready to throw himself out the window if people started shouting -or worse- shooting.

Nothing happened. The Assassin strained his hearing. When nothing continued to happen, he removed his night-vision device from his belt and peered about the room.

It was a standard bedroom. A bed -obviously- as well as a dresser and desk. Dirty clothes were strewn haphazardly around the room and own the floor. The occupant probably hadn't been expecting guests.

Satisfied that he was alone, the Assassin put his NVD back into its pouch and pulled on his balaclava. Then, careful not to disturb the scattered dirty clothes, the Assassin unzipped his jacket and drew his suppressed pistol while moving towards the closed door.

The floor underneath the door was illuminated, and the Assassin silently cursed. Of course. It had been too easy up till now.

He had hoped that the late hour, combined with the amateurish nature of his adversaries, would make this a simple operation. He had harbored the faint hope that everyone would be asleep. But no, nothing could ever be easy.

Suddenly the Assassin froze. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching his position from outside the door.

As the Assassin held his breath, he slowly moved his gloved finger inside the trigger guard of his Beretta. Except for that single action, the Assassin did not move. Instead he waited, heart beating a slightly faster tattoo against his chest. He knew that in a few seconds there was the possibility that he would have to run or fight for his life; and yet his hands did not shake. All the Assassin did was wait… and listen.

When the Assassin heard the footfalls continue past him, down what he assumed to be a hallway, the Assassin began to breathe evenly again. He had remained undiscovered. The trick would be to stay that way until his mission was completed.

To that end, the Assassin strained his hearing again to verify that the hallway was clear.

It was.

The Assassin moved quickly and deliberately. He opened the door wide enough to slide through, and then raised his suppressed pistol.

Through his peripheral vision the Assassin took in the sights of the hallway he found himself in. Long, well-lit, and surprisingly clean. There were a few pictures that decorated the otherwise bare white walls, but they didn't interest the Assassin nearly as much as the large thuggish man with the shotgun grasped in his hand. Who must have somehow sensed the Assassin's silent entrance, because he was turning around and bringing his weapon to bear upon him.

The Assassin didn't hesitate. He aimed his Beretta at the man's head and fired a single suppressed shot.

Any gunfire is loud, and although a 9mm round is on the quieter end of the auditory range for gunfire, if the Assassin hadn't been using a quality suppressor along with subsonic ammunition, everyone in the complex would have woken up. But he was a professional, and the Assassin had planned ahead.

There was a cough from the pistol, and then the man's head seemed to blow backwards in a pink spray of blood and brains and bone. The dead man seemed to sway on his feet for a moment, and then he fell to the ground for the last time.

Or, tried to.

The Assassin rushed forward to catch the falling man, and thus was able to muffle what would have doubtlessly been a loud crash as a 200 plus pound corpse hit the linoleum floor.

For the second time that night the Assassin froze. And again, no one came to investigate.

If the Assassin didn't give a sigh of relief, it was only because he knew that he was going to have to hide a large dead body. Sniffing, the Assassin morosely noted that the corpse had just evacuated its bowels for the last time.

At this, the Assassin did give a silent sigh.

Then he stood, told himself to suck it up, and dragged the body into the room that he had just left. Once he had the corpse inside the door, the Assassin grabbed a hoodie from the floor and went to wipe down the bloody mess in the hallway. After that was done, the Assassin grabbed the shotgun off the linoleum and continued on with his mission.

The Assassin repeated the process of slipping wraithlike down the barren hallway until he arrived at the last door on the right. It was the only thing left in the corridor that could possibly be what the Assassin was looking for. The door was a heavy wooden number that would be impossible to break through without the proper tools.

Luckily for the Assassin, the door's deadbolt was on his side.

Attaching the Night-Vision monocle to a strap around his head, the Assassin carefully slid the deadbolt out of place and, weapon up, entered his target's quarters.

It was another dark room.

The Assassin moved smoothly into the room with his Beretta aimed in front of him in one hand, and his stolen double-barrel 12-gauge in the other, with its shortened barrel pointed down.

It took the Assassin about three seconds to clear the room, and another heartbeat after that to get visual confirmation on his target.

The target was a middle aged Indian man, a bit below average height, who was losing his graying hair and gaining weight.

The Assassin knew all this in spite of the fact that the target was sound asleep under the covers. It had all been in the dossier.

The Assassin moved into the room and silently approached the bed. With his left hand, the Assassin carefully laid his shotgun on the floor, and with his right he holstered his pistol. Then he covered his targets gently snoring mouth, and woke him up.

Dr. Vikas Singh woke with a start. The man's eyes bugged out as they saw the masked stranger and he tried to scream.

Of course, the Assassin's hands covered the Doctor's mouth, and did a fantastic job of muffling his cry.

Very calmly, as one might with a spooked horse, the Assassin brought two fingers to his lips, and shushed the panicking scientist. It took several long seconds before Dr. Singh calmed down enough for the Assassin to take his hand away from his mouth, and then the Assassin gestured for the Doctor to silently dress.

Several times the Doctor tried to speak to the Assassin, but each time he was immediately hushed. The Assassin did not speak a single word, only communicating his desire for Dr. Singh to hurry through use of hand signals.

When Dr. Singh was dressed, the Assassin redrew his pistol, and picked up the shotgun from the floor. Someone had apparently taken the time to work the wooden stock into a pistol grip, a feature that the Assassin found to his liking.

Gesturing for the Doctor to follow, the Assassin entered the corridor and was immediately thrown backwards.

At the opposite end of the hallway a man stood holding a smoking, long-barreled revolver. He must have saw the blood smear that the Assassin had not been able to remove, and had drawn his weapon accordingly. It was just bad luck and bad timing that the Assassin had chosen that exact moment to step into the hallway.

The Assassin had been thrown off his feet onto his back by the heavy slug that had hit him, but to his credit, he didn't let that slow him down. He had lost his grip on the shotgun when the round had impacted his bulletproof vest, but he retained his hold on the Beretta.

While on his back, the Assassin raised his pistol in his right hand and put two suppressed bullets into his attacker's chest before the man could bring back the hammer on his gigantic revolver. This time, the Assassin was unable to stop the solid thump that the dead man made as he fell.

…Not that it mattered. The Assassin knew that if the single roaring shot from the revolver hadn't woken the entire building yet, then it was simply a matter of time before those who had heard it raised the alarm.

In other words, it was time to go.

The Assassin took a moment a moment to make sure that the bullet hadn't penetrated his vest; it hadn't. The Assassin then rolled to his feet and was grateful to find that, although he felt like he had been punched by Muhamad Ali in his prime, nothing felt broken. The Assassin grabbed the shotgun off the floor and then turned to his charge.

Dr. Singh stared at his rescuer with… something. Not with fear, or awe, or even disgust at just having seen the Assassin kill a man— even if it was one of his kidnappers. If the Assassin had to define what he saw on the face of the Doctor, he would say that it was a look of mild-interest. The Assassin had seen the exact face the Doctor was making at people browsing for books at the library.

The Assassin shook himself, it was probably shock. Anyway, he didn't have time for a psychoanalysis on Dr. Singh. He could already hear two sets of footsteps pounding up the stairs on the opposite end of the hallway.

Before the mystery stair climbers could make their entrance, a dark-skinned man wearing tighty-whities and carrying a Kalashnikov burst through a door less than ten feet from in front of the Assassin.

Again, the Assassin did not hesitate. With his left hand, he raised the sawed-off shotgun and sent a load of buckshot into the AK wielder's chest. The recoil was enormous, and the Assassin had to readjust his grip on the weapon, but with luck the incredible report the shotgun produced would deter anyone else from coming at him.

It didn't.

The two men that came up the stairs carried pistols and were wearing clothes. Thank God. They had started shooting down the corridor the moment that they came to the top of the stairs. It was ill aimed panic-fire. Still, the Assassin rapidly put a single round into each of their chests, and then he repeated the maneuver with a third and fourth round respectively.

Gun held ready in a shooting stance, the Assassin waited for his next assailant. When no one came, he hurriedly dragged Dr. Singh back into the bedroom that he had initially entered through, locking the door behind them.

The Assassin led Dr. Singh to the window, and after grabbing a t-shirt from the floor to protect his hands, the Doctor was only too happy to slide down the heavy-duty rope.

The Assassin stood in front of the door, with the shotgun pointed at where a man's chest should be, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. And once again, the Assassin wondered about the Doctor's lack of reaction to the dead body that lay a few scant feet from where they had entered. The Assassin rarely saw that sort of non-reaction from someone without the training or experience necessary to deal with death.

His thoughts were interrupted when the doorknob jiggled. The Assassin decided that Dr. Singh had had enough time for his descent and fired through the door.

There was a roar as the last round of buckshot tore through wood of the door and into the flesh of whoever was on the other side. The Assassin didn't pause to admire his handiwork, he simply took several quick strides over to the widow -holstering his Beretta as he went- and went out the way he had come in.

In the alley, the Doctor gave the Assassin an unsure look, as if he didn't expect to get this far and didn't know how to proceed. Moving quickly over to a pile of garbage, the Assassin started tossing bags of trash off of what was quickly revealed to be a black Kawasaki motorcycle.

Dr. Singh needed no encouragement to hop of the back of the bike as the Assassin started the engine and roared off into the Parisian night.

* * *

Sunshine spilled onto the Assassins face as he greeted the Colorado morning. As nice as Paris had been, there was no place like home, and it was good to be back in the U.S.

The operation had been a success. After making their escape, he and Dr. Singh had driven around the city for nearly an hour to escape any possible tails they might have had. The Doctor had tried several more times to thank his savior and engage him in conversation, but the Assassin hadn't responded. Finally, apparently having decided that they didn't share a common language, the Doctor had given up and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

Less than an hour before sunrise the Assassin arrived at the destination.

The Assassin and the Doctor pulled into a parking garage where they met a short prettyish women, who gave the Assassin the correct code phrase. In return, the Assassin gave the women the Doctor.

Dr. Singh would ride out of Paris tranquilized and in the trunk of a car. After that, the Assassin had no idea what would happen to him. It was above his paygrade.

After the women and the Doctor had left, the Assassin rode the motorcycle to a pre-selected motel where he had identification, a plane ticket, and a change of clothes waiting for him. After showering and leaving his gear tucked away in a place where his handlers would find it -but no one else would- the Assassin had ridden back to the airport; he spent the rest of his time in France eating crepes while waiting for his flight.

The Assassin smiled as he made his way up the driveway towards the ranch-style home, it had been a good trip. Then he winced. Okay, being shot hadn't been fun, but other than that…

All thoughts of his other life fled his mind as a beautiful redheaded teenager walked outside to greet him.

"Morning" Kim Possible greeted the Assassin, in her friendly, chipper voice.

"Hey K.P., how's it hangin'?" replied Ron Stoppable.

* * *

 **C'est tout pour l'instant.**


	2. School Day

**The Kidon**

 **Chapter 2**

 **School Day**

* * *

"I hate Mondays."

Kim looked at Ron with a bemused expression on her mouth and asked "Why? I mean, I get that you don't like school, but what have Mondays done to irk you?"

Ron studied the sidewalk for a bit while he considered his answer. All of the snow had melted, and although it was still a bit nippy, there were thankfully no puddles to contend with on the two friends walk to Middleton High School.

"Alright, fair point K.P." Ron conceded while leveling a lopsided grin at his best friend, "I guess that I hate all school days equally."

Kim gave a dramatically heavy sigh at Ron's antics and replied, "Well at least your consistent."

"What do my bowel movements have to do with this K.P.?" asked Ron confusedly.

Kim's head whipped around to stare at her friend's perfectly innocent expression— until his face morphed into a wide grin. His expression was so comical compared to the completely innocent tone that he had used, that Kim gave a guffaw of surprised laughter. This sent Ron off into a round of victorious chortling. And after that, Kim was unable to repress her own giggling.

Kim's giggles and Ron's own hearty chuckles fed off of each other. It wasn't until they had arrived through the doors of the school that Kim snickering had died down enough for her to ask in a mock serious tone, "Bathroom humor Ron, seriously?"

Instead of answering her, Ron simply gave Kim a wink and a wave before heading off to grab the books that he needed for first period from his locker.

* * *

As Ron navigated the hallways of Middleton High to get to his locker and then get to class, he easily dodged out of the way of the students and staff who were enjoying the free time before the start of class. Ron didn't plan to wander the halls or to chat. Other than Kim, he really didn't have any friends at school.

Not that this fact particularly bothered him.

He arrived at his homeroom early, and seeing that he had a good fifteen minutes before his History teacher arrived, Ron pulled out his latest book: _A Connecticut Yankee in King Author's Court_ by Mark Twain.

Ron was enjoying the novel. He had been on a bit of a Twain kick lately, ever since he and Kim had stopped Duff Killigan from turning the Mississippi River into a water-golf course.

 _"_ _Seriously, what the hell is water-golf?"_ thought Ron, before he turned to the marked page in the paperback.

Ron spent the remainder of his time waiting for class to begin lost in a world of time-traveling engineers, heroic knights, and conniving charlatan wizards. Ron loved fiction novels. He had once heard that reading a good book could be a release. But for Ron, it was an escape.

Lord knew he had enough reasons to want a break from reality. And while movies and television where fine, they couldn't be carted halfway around the world in a backpack.

Ron spent a happy quarter-hour reading until he was interrupted by his teacher starting class.

With a sigh, Ron put away his novel and flipped open his notebook. The teacher was talking about the history of the Cold-War… well, what she claimed was the history of it.

Ron suspected that there was a bit more to a political and ideological struggle that had spanned decades than what his Mrs. Johnson had described as,

"greedy capitalists using propaganda to cement their economic interests, while their counterparts in Russia similarly used propaganda to secure their own political power."

Not that he doubted that had happened. He just wished that the teacher would go over the political climate that had made the power grab possible. Instead of constantly going on her rants against what she viewed as simple elitism.

Ron had formed his own views on the subject Mrs. Johnson was trying to teach to the class of barely awake seniors.

The strong would do as they wished, until and unless they were stopped.

Ron knew that it wasn't a pretty worldview. It was actually a rather depressing one. Still, it was the one he had.

After all, he had seen firsthand what his fellow man could do when left unchecked…

A few, like Kim, where capable of astounding feats of altruism and goodness.

…But most were perfectly happy to prey upon those weaker than them.

More times than he cared to remember, Ron had had a front-row seat to horrifying atrocities committed by slavers, terrorists, drug lords, and so many others.

They killed and raped and tortured— sometimes for no greater reason than for a bit of money and power.

Sometimes, just because they could.

People like that really pissed Ron off.

Ron's angry train of thought was cut off when Mrs. Johnson asked, "Ronald, are you still with us?"

Blinking, Ron centered his gaze on the front of classroom at his teacher, and answered with a smile he had practiced a hundred times in front of his mirror, "Sure thing Mrs. J! Just restin' my eyes a bit."

Mrs. Johnson gave an unconvinced nod, and then returned to her lesson.

Silently cursing himself for his slip, Ron resolved not to be noticed by anyone else for the rest of the day. He hadn't given any sign of it to Kim, but the .357 slug he had taken to his body armor over the weekend was bothering him. The impact had left a deep purple and blue bruise on his torso, and Ron really didn't need any problems other than that.

With an internal nod to himself, Ron decided that taking a day off from playing the part of Kim's buffoonish sidekick wouldn't do any harm.

With no fanfare whatsoever, Ron melted into the background of Mrs. Johnson's first period history class.

* * *

Steve Barkin was considered by many to be a good man.

He had been a good soldier while he served in the Marine Corps. After he had gotten out of the Corps. had been a good teacher. Steve Barkin had been such a good teacher that he had been promoted to Vice-Principal after only four years on the job.

Steve Barkin was generally pleased with the way his life had turned out. He hadn't had a family yet, but he figured that he was in perfect health and still had time. He was respected in his community. And he had made an excellent career for himself—and he still got to teach more often than not covering for his fellow educators.

As he took a deep lungful of breath while patrolling the halls between periods, Mr. Barkin reflected that almost everything in his life was going well. …And then he spotted Stoppable.

The kid was only taking some books from his locker. Just like a lot of students were doing. Unlike all the other teenagers in the hallway, Stoppable somehow sensed him watching him from thirty feet away amidst a sea of chatting students and turned to look directly at him.

Barkin felt an involuntary shiver go down his spine. Even though he had been in combat as a Marine, Stoppable still creeped him the fuck out.

There were a lot of reasons to be wary of Stoppable. For one thing, the kid's grades were all over the place. Sometimes he would get all 'A''s, and other times he wouldn't even pass. His French teacher said that Stoppable was already conversant in the language, and he swore up-and-down that the kid would be his best student if he only did his homework consistently!

The majority of teachers at Middleton High thought that Ron's participation in Team Possible's crimefighting was the reason for his erratic work. While Kim was only too happy for the chance at make-up tests and extra-credit, Stoppable was ambivalent. He did enough to earn what he liked to call a, 'Gentleman's C', and that was it.

Weird though they were, Stoppable's grades weren't enough to frighten a veteran of the U.S. Marine Corps.

But his eyes were.

It had been Barkin's third and final time in battle.

* * *

He was younger, in his early twenties and on the other side of the world. And all he could think about was how the heat somehow made the stench of the blood and feces left behind after the skirmish even worse.

A group of militia had ambushed Barkin's squad as they were heading back to base.

One moment Barkin had been cursing the 90-degree temperature. The next moment there had been a clap of thunder from the front vehicle, followed instantly by a rain of bullets.

Barkin had react instantly, jumping out then taking cover behind his car, and then laying down suppressing fire with his M16 assault rifle.

The attack hadn't lasted long, it had been a hit-and-run. But to Barkin, and the other dozen or so men in his unit, it had felt like an eternity.

A car bomb had taken out the lead vehicle and killed three of the four men in it instantly. Thanks to some miracle the fourth man -Ricky- had only been concussed and beaten.

Barkin and the other men had done their best against what would later turn out to be an almost equal fighting force armed with AK-47 assault rifles. But only one of them managed to kill any of them…

Because he killed all of them.

Barkin hadn't seen all of it, but what he had seen would stay with him for the rest of his life.

 _Headshot_.

One of the attackers on Barkins left literally lost his head as a 5.56x45 bullet tore through his cranium.

 _Headshot_.

Another hostile dropped with a spray of gore originating from his skull.

 _Crack. Crack. Crack._

The third hostile within Barkin's view fell as the man broke from cover and sprinted for another firing angle; only to catch three bullets to his center of mass.

Then it was over, and everything was terribly still.

Back at base, Barkin wandered around in a daze. Five of his brothers-in-arms lay dead. _Five!_ It wasn't fair. And that wasn't even counting Carlos and Ethan, both of them lay in hospital beds plugged up with more needles than Barkin had ever wanted to see in his life!

 _"_ _It's not fair."_ thought Barkin as he wandered into the base's galley. He didn't want to eat, but he figured he might as well get a soda or something. Dehydration was hell in this climate.

"Yo Steve" shouted a familiar voice, cutting into to Barkin's reverie, "over here!"

Barkin glanced up, embarrassed to have been caught unaware, and was shocked to see Grayson. Grayson who had just dropped eight men as easily as - _how do you do_ \- in the same firefight Barkin had been in less than an hour ago!

Astonished, Barkin stared as the man casually took a bite out of a ham sandwich, and proceeded to wash it down with a sip from a glass of milk. Grayson greeted Barkin with a smile and said "Ham-and-cheese man, it's pretty freakin' good."

Recovering from his surprise, Barkin asked "Are you O.K., I mean, you just…" Barkin trailed off, unsure how to finish his sentence.

"It's all good brother, fuckers had it coming. They shouldn't have messed with us." Grayson replied nonchalantly to Barkin's unasked question with a shrug and another bite of his sandwich.

"Yeah, but you just killed eight guys. I mean, half us are in the hospital or in the ground and you're just eating a fucking sandwich like it's nothing!" Barkin hadn't mean to shout the last part, but it had just slipped out. It wasn't Grayson's fault the ambush had happened. Indeed, if the younger man hadn't done what he did, it was probable that no one would have survived.

Grayson stared steadily at Barkin for a moment, and then he casually took another sip of his milk.

Barkin sat down across from Grayson and put his head in his hands. After an uncomfortable pause Barkin finally managed to apologies, "Sorry. It's been a rough day. I didn't mean to get on your case."

Grayson gave an easy grin and said, "S'okay. Totally understandable. Other people tend to get jumpy when folks start dyin'."

Barkin stared at the man, trying to tell if he was joking… and then for the first time, Barkin really looked at Grayson.

Grayson wasn't bragging. He wasn't shocked or horrified after just seeing his comrades die and then avenging them. On the man's face, there was no sign of fear or stress to be found. Grayson had simply killed more than a half-dozen people, and then gotten a sandwich.

When Barkin met Grayson's eyes, he suddenly realized that the ambush was only the second most terrifying thing he had that day.

Over the years, Barkin met a few others that had eyes like Grayson. Mostly, they were Special Forces guys. Sometimes they were snipers. Barkin didn't run into them often. But when he did, he could instantly classify them for what they were; born killers.

People who through talent and temperament were uniquely qualified to take the lives of their fellow man. They weren't sociopaths -at least Barkin didn't think they were- but some of them were damn close. They were as comfortable with violence and killing as was possible, and Barkin maintained a completely sensible level of fear towards them.

Sometimes Barkin could tell a lot about a person from their eyes.

Sometimes, Barkin would be able to tell if a person would be able to kill a man… and then eat a sandwich.

* * *

As the last bell rang, Ron thanked all the gods that might be listening that he got to go home.

Last year, Ron had decided to hand off his Middleton Mad Dog mascot uniform to Kim's younger brothers: Jim and Tim. And the two super-intelligent and hyperactive thirteen-year-old twins had taken to the cheer squad almost as well as their sister had.

As far as Ron was concerned, they were welcome to it.

Although the additional tumbling skills had been an asset to him at times -and looking at pretty girls doing cartwheels had been fun- he much preferred to do physical conditioning and hand-to-hand training with his primary trainer.

Even if Marty was a sadistic bastard.

Ron exchanged his textbooks at his locker, and once again thanked the gods; he could get all his homework done in one of his three study halls. Being a high school senior definitely had its perks.

As Ron headed out the door amid the cacophony of students rushing get to sports practice, or their club, or to just get on the bus and go home— Ron's danger sense went off.

Ron could feel someone watching him. Usually when this happened, it was just Mr. Barkin being a tool and staring at him. This felt different.

Ron took several strides forward so that he was walking alongside a group of laughing juniors. He then used the social cover the teenagers provided to survey his surroundings. Which was harder than it sounded in a crowded hallway.

 _"_ _And… there she is."_ thought Ron as he spotted the beautiful young women who had been looking at him.

Ron knew immediately that she wasn't a student. Although, she was gorgeous. With wavy chestnut and a natural tan that accentuated her athletic five-and-a-half-foot frame. She stood totally out of place in the hallway and, if Ron's guess was correct, she might be just over the legal drinking age.

That was too old to be hanging around at Middleton High without a reason.

Ron was able to catalogue all of this in less than a second. However, this was apparently enough time for the mystery woman to decide on her course of action, because she waved at Ron and shouted over the hallway chatter, "Hey", while looking directly at him.

Ron paused, moving dutifully away from the streaming mass exodus. _"She's too casually dressed to be a student-teacher."_ Ron noted as he studied the approaching women.

Dressed in a pair of tight blue jeans stuffed into cowboy boots, and a navy-blue sweater that hugged her ample chest, the girl was definitely a knockout.

 _"_ _No teenage guy would be able to focus is their teacher looked like that. And I suppose no teen lesbian would be able— hey is that an Oscar Wilde?!"_ the teenager finished his thought excitedly; totally losing focus at the sight of the novel in the stranger's hand.

The young women met Ron's eyes for a moment -giving Ron the chance to notice what a striking shade of hazel they were- and then she stood directly in front of him.

"'You will always be fond of me. I represent all the sins you never had the courage to commit.'"* Ron quoted as a greeting.

The blinked. Then she glanced down at her copy of _A Picture of Dorian Gray_ in astonishment and asked, "Was that from this book?" lifting the novel and displaying it as though it were an antique she was considering purchasing with a friend at a thrift shop.

Ron gave her a relaxed smile and replied, "Well, yes. Wilde's one of my favorite authors. And he is my favorite playwright. …Just don't my English teacher I said that, or I'll have to write 'Shakespeare is the greatest' a thousand times on a chalkboard."

At this the women gave a surprised laugh, and said, "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

Ron's grin widened just a bit, and the two paused for a beat in a comfortable silence.

"I'm Connie" the women introduced herself holding out one lovely manicured hand.

Ron replied with, "Ron", and gave Connie's hand an adept shake.

"So, beautiful girl who calls herself Connie. What can I do for you?" asked Ron.

At this Connie smirked and said in a teasing voice, "Really Ron, we've known each other for all of a minute and you're already flirting?"

"Yup!" chirped a totally unabashed Ron Stoppable. "In my defense though, I was considering 'Wowzah!' for my opening line before I remembered the Wilde quote. So, I think I'm doing pretty well."

"I'd give you a solid eight-out-of-ten so far." Connie said, now with a knowing smile and a gleam in her beautiful hazel eyes.

"What's that, like a 'B+'?" asked Ron jokingly.

At this, Connie gave another melodic laugh, and Ron joined her with a chuckle.

"O.K., you're definitely cute. And as much as I would love to do this little back-and-forth all day, I need to find my little sister. Do happen to know where the cheerleaders practice?" Connie asked.

"In the gym. Go down this hall and make a left, you can't miss it." answered Ron, who was pleased to have been called 'cute'.

"Thanks" said Connie, offering Ron another breathtaking smile before heading off in the direction of the gym.

Ron licked his lips. Then took a breath and called out, "They're doing _The Importance of Being Earnest_ at the Middleton Playhouse this Saturday night. Will I see you there? It's supposed to be Wilde."

Connie turned around and gave Ron an appraising look, then she graced him with a wide smile and turned back around while calling over her shoulder, "'I can resist everything except temptation.'"*

As she sauntered away, Ron thrilled to watch as she gave her hips a bit more sway than was strictly necessary.

Who could blame him?

* * *

Ron finished his five-mile run with a hard sprint. Once he finished, he immediately began pulling off his hoodie and approached the suburban house.

When he was on the porch he rang the doorbell and shouted, "Marty, it's freaking cold! Open up! It's me!"

A minute later Ron heard the sound as three deadbolts were thrown back and the steel door was opened to reveal a large, fiftyish man, with a barrel chest, gray hair and a neatly shaved salt-and-pepper beard.

Without speaking, the man identified as Marty moved aside to allow Ron entrance into the house. Ron walked through the door and, without warning, Marty suddenly lunged at Ron's back.

Ron had been expecting the attack and threw himself forward into a forward roll. Completely clearing the lunge and creating space between himself and his opponent. Turning on his knees to rise, Ron pulled a switchblade from the pocket of his shorts— apparently prepared to do battle.

Only to stare down the barrel of the Czech 9mm handgun Marty held in one calloused hand.

"Seriously kid? A fucking knife? What the hell where you going to do; open a box? Where's your gun" demanded an annoyed Marty. His deep Israeli accent making him sound angrier than really he was.

Ron glared back at his trainer for a moment, and then he broke out in a grin and said, "Have I ever told you how adorable your accent sounds when your angry?"

Marty took a breath, and then he lowered his pistol. "Still with that Benchmade? Don't you have other knives?" asked Marty, "And don't change the subject; where is your gun?"

"Too answer your questions in order: My Infidel knife is for running, because it's light and doesn't chafe, and you know that I don't like to bring a firearm with me while I go running because it's too conspicuous." Ron answered, totally unaffected by being held at gunpoint a mere moment ago, "Now shut the door old man, your letting the cold air in."

Marty acquiesced, sighing "Kids these days, no respect for their elders."

Ron harrumphed, and walked downstairs to the basement.

The basement was by far the most interesting thing about what was otherwise a perfectly ordinary two-bedroom bungalow.

It wasn't quite the Batcave; but it was close.

To the far left of the stairs leading into the basement was an entire wall decorated with various highly illegal firearms; complete with a machinist's table dedicated the weapons upkeep. Underneath the table lay boxes of explosive compounds and cases of ammunition for the firearms.

In one corner of the room sat a fairly standard home office. The only unusual things about it was the bookshelf that housed everything from treatises on modern politics, to field-guides on improvised explosions that would make any anarchist drool.

The entire right side of the basement contained a thick wrestling mat and exercise equipment: a heavy bag, a speed bag, free weights, jump ropes, and a chin-up bar. Everything one would need to get into fighting shape!

Ron only spared the rest of the room a cursory glance before heading over to the impressive home gym to begin his post-run stretch.

About fifteen minutes later, Ron was finishing his stretching and was joined in the basement by a sweat-suit clad Marty, who said, "You know what to do."

Ron groaned, and then walked over to the chin-up bar and -after a short hop- began to count off twenty pull-ups.

At this, Marty smiled and asked, "So how was Paris?"

If Ron could have turned to glare, he would have. But sadly, he couldn't, so instead he grouched, "I got shot. Which makes you a monster for making me train literally the day after I got injured on a mission. If there was any justice in the world I would receive a medal instead of this abuse you call 'training'."

Marty rolled his eyes and said, "You know what you signed up for. If you wanted a parade you shouldn't have become a spy."

"James Bond was a spy," Ron panted out, "let's be honest; the nicest thing people can say about us is that we're black ops."

Marty watched as Ron dropped from the pull up bar, and immediately began doing sit-ups. Then he replied, "Yes. Though that was the obvious implication when you agreed to provide your services to Mossad."

"Go to Antarctica and jump in a deep lake." Ron panted.

Manny laughed, "All the lakes there are iced over."

Ron paused as his chest touched his knees to glare.

The pair settled into a comfortable silence as Ron began to do push-ups.

Ron finished his exercises, and broke the by saying, "So I have decided that I am not a sociopath."

At this, Marty glanced up, and said, "Oh, why is that?"

Ron nodded and wiped some sweat from his eyes before beginning, "I was reading a book last week, which reminded me of a passage from a _different_ book. Although for the life of me I cannot remember what it was called or who wrote it. But I digress; the protagonist explained how he judged people through their capacity to love. I have decided that this definition is the worthiest that I've heard to date; thus, I have adopted it. I love Rufus, and Kim, and can even tolerate you in small doses. Therefore, I'm not a sociopath."

Marty sighed heavily, his eyes troubled, "Look, kid. Those quacks who said that, they don't know shit. And even if they did, they only called you a, what do they call it, 'a borderline sociopath'."

Ron's tone took on a confrontational tone as he said, "Yes, but I have the power of self-determination. I can feel empathy for others, or at least I believe that I can so far as I am aware of any sensation. However, if we assumed that I was a sociopath and that I didn't have empathy, I could learn to fake it so well that no one would ever know the difference! As human beings have been shown time and time again to be unable to tell the difference between reality and illusion -and because I am a human being regardless of my psychological state- I would eventually become a standard of mental health. Ergo, I am not a sociopath because I do not wish to be."

Marty nodded thoughtfully before stating in an amused voice, "He says as he stalls to catch his breath. You're a manipulative punk, you know that kid?"

Ron laughed as he went to the sparring mat and readied his stance.

Marty rolled his shoulder, and then mirrored Ron.

Both men were familiar with a variety of martial arts styles, but they both preferred to use a hybrid martial art called Krav Maga in real-life combat situations. So that is what they practiced.

Krav Maga is a fighting system developed by the Israelis that combines elements of boxing, wresting, aikido, and judo into a form of street-fighting that emphasizes aggression and situational awareness. Unlike most other martial arts, Krav Maga focuses on extreme efficiency, brutality, and the willingness to kick the other guy when he is down… and if the kick lands in someone's scrotum, so much the better.

As they circled each other, Marty tested Ron's reflexes with a quick jab.

Ron hopped back easily. And the circling continued.

For the second time that day, Marty lunged at Ron.

The next three minutes were a blur as both men seemed to attempt to beat each other to death with their padded sparring gloves. Punches, jabs, kicks, -even knees and elbows- all flew as both men struggled to hurt the other as much as possible. All keeping themselves as undamaged as possible.

When the match was concluded, Ron was even more exhausted than he had been after his hour-long workout. Nothing is more physically and mentally draining than hand-to-hand combat.

 _"_ _At least this time the old man's sweating too."_ Ron thought with more than a bit of spite.

Ron knew why Marty made him fight after he had exhausted himself with running and push-ups and sit-ups and the other endlessly repetitive exercises. And to a degree, Ron even agreed with Marty saying that if he was going to engage in unarmed combat, it was probably going to be after he was exhausted, so he might as well train that way now.

Ron still thought that Marty was a sadistic bastard though.

For his part, Marty was more than a little impressed with his student's performance, and he couldn't help but admire the effect he had had on Ron over the years.

It really said a lot about Ron's toughness that, less than 48 hours after having caught a round in his Kevlar vest, he was willing to go toe-to-toe with Marty. At one point in his life, Marty had been one of the greatest Close-Quarters-Battle technicians in the world— with a special emphasis on hand-to-hand combat!

For years Marty had run counter-terrorism operations all over the Middle East on behalf of his home nation of Israel. He had run so many successful operations that he had become something of a living legend among the special forces community.

Sadly though, the good times couldn't last. Marty got old. To the point where firefights, HALO jumping, and the constant running where too much for his body to handle.

Marty had no children, he had never married, the only family he did have was a sister who lived in England. All Marty knew was fighting. Serving his country. It was all he had ever wanted… all he had ever _needed_.

Marty wasn't ready to retire.

So, when Mossad offered him a job as one of their elite assassins, Marty leapt at the opportunity.

Sure, it was less kicking in doors, and more intelligence gathering. But overall, Marty didn't mind. Door kicking was for younger men with better knees anyway. So long as he was useful, and could occasionally shoot an evil bastard in the head, Marty was content.

His way of life had continued until Marty's career at Mossad was forever changed when his superiors told him that he would be flying to Colorado to train a deep-cover asset… for the next few years.

Initially, Marty had been furious. He wanted to know exactly what he had done to deserve such a shit assignment. His superiors had calmed him with the assurance that this asset was of vital importance— in fact, training him would possibly be the most important thing Marty had done in his career.

It had not gone over well when Marty learned that the "exceptional talent" his bosses had discovered was a smart-ass 15-year-old kid.

Eventually though, Marty had been won over.

Yeah, Ron was cocky and a wise-ass; but he was also the single most brilliant operator Marty had ever met. When Marty had met him, Ron had shown an unbelievable amount of potential! And he was willing to work his ass off to unleash it!

Ron absorbed languages like a sponge, and he made it a point of learning everything he could about the locale he would be operating in. Ron thrived in combat like some sort of mythical badass ninja, and he combined that with a seemingly supernatural ability to blend in— this had only grown since his trip to Yamanouchi.

Most importantly, Ron had a teen heroine who made it possible for him to go where normal people wouldn't be allowed.

A nuclear arms deal was happening in Iran? Call Kim Possible with some bullshit about a Drakken sighting, and Ron would take care of it. A group of kidnappers had captured an ambassador and their family? Call Kim Possible, and not only will the hostages all be saved, but the kidnappers may all perish in a totally unavoidable fiery explosion. A brutal dictator caught a sudden and fatal case of lead poisoning to the face via way of supersonic metallic projectile— ending his tyrannical regime forever? Don't look at Team Possible, they were just distributing aid on behalf of various charities.

Kim Possible was a media darling. She had been personally honored by world leaders, movie stars, and relief organizations all over the world! She was a hero!

Kim Possible was above reproach;

…and so was her sidekick.

Marty shook himself as Ron began circling again. Now was not the time to be reminiscing like a tired old man. He had done a marvelous job of teaching Ron over the last three years; tactics, languages, firearms, demolitions, blade-work, and so much more… but despite being better than most blackbelts, Marty still thought that Ron's hand-to-hand needed work.

Ron rushed him, coming in low with a feinted kick at the knee followed a quick combo delivered to Marty's upper torso.

Ron was young, and fast.

But Marty had almost fifty pounds of muscle and decades of experience on him. Also, he hadn't just worked himself into exhaustion a few minutes before.

There was really only one way that this could go.

Ron hit the ground hard, and made a noise that sounded approximately like "glurk" when all the air was violently expelled from his lungs by the impact.

Breathing heavily, Marty held out a hand and said, "You need more power behind your strikes."

If Ron could've responded, he would have said something that would have made Marty force him to beat the heavy-bag for an hour. So perhaps it was a mercy he didn't have the breath for speech.

"Come on, three more rounds then we're done." Marty encouraged, trying not to smile as his pupil struggled for oxygen.

The special ringtone Ron's cellphone made as it went off was music to Ron's ears.

Both men paused their sparring as Ron went to answer, "Hey K.P., we're we headed? What's going on?"

"Global Justice called in an emergency. It's Monkey Fist and DNAmy." Kim Possible replied, "pack gear for deep wilderness and I'll give you the sitch on the way."

Then she hung up. Kim took the whole "brevity is the soul of wit"* thing seriously during a crisis.

Ron turned to face his trainer and smiled, "It's a mission. And since we weren't finished, I guess that we'll have to call this one a draw."

* * *

 ***The first two quotes belong to** ** _The Picture of Dorian Gray_** **by Oscar Wilde. While the third is from** ** _Hamlet_** **by William Shakespeare.**


	3. Mission imPossible

**The Kidon**

 **Chapter Three**

 **Mission imPossible**

* * *

Ron loved flying. He loved how freeing it was to slip through the shackles of the earth and just _go_. He loved the speed of the aircraft and how, within it, he was able to go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted. The amount of freedom Ron experienced was every bit as exhilarating as the speed. And of course, the view was good too.

He and Kim had attended a two-week accelerated Pilot-Training course over their last Spring Break, and each of them had earned a Pilot's License. While the course had been exhausting and expensive (thankfully, the training had been comped due to the bragging rights that _the_ Kim Possible attended their course brought to the company) it had proven its worth on several of the search-and-rescue missions Team Possible routinely undertook.

So, it was natural that he was disappointed when their pilot politely declined from letting him fly the Cessna 406.

"Thanks for the ride Brian!" said Kim gratefully.

She sat in the back of the plane doing homework and looked quite comfortable. Which was only natural, seeing as how the aircraft could seat a dozen people. Ron admitted to himself that it was quite a nice ride— there wasn't even any smelly animal stink.

The only homework Ron had was a history report about the influence of Islam; a topic he knew more about than anyone in the school including his teacher and the few Muslims in his school!

He already decided to get a 'B' on the paper. If he gave the paper his best effort, it would raise questions about why a white, Jewish, middle-American teenager could speak fluent Arabic and was able to recite passages of the Quran from memory. If Ron's career as a professional killer ever went south, he could make a living as a Middle Eastern analyst.

Ron tried to read the book he had brought, but he wasn't able to enjoy it. He tried to look out the window at the rapidly passing brush, but he couldn't enjoy that either! Something about the mission they were on didn't make sense to him.

Global Justice was sending them into another hostile situation with no back-up and virtually no intelligence. That didn't bother Ron as much as it should. During his time doing missions with Kim, Ron had developed an intense dislike for the organization.

Global Justice had originally been created by the United Nations as a way to monitor and mitigate threats to the international community. Modelling themselves after Interpol, G.J was supposed to facilitate cooperation between the health, nuclear, environmental, and human rights organizations of its participatory governments.

Unfortunately, the Super-Villain threat in the 90's changed all of that. The attacks of killer robots, death rays, and enhanced humans led to some of the greatest death tolls until the tragedy of 9/11.

And that was just in the United States.

Global Justice was tasked with dealing with the threat by the United Nations, and to be fair, they did everything they could to prepare. They reached out to various penitentiaries to build special prisons more capable of holding the new super-villains, they tracked the financial movements of the rapidly growing super-villain community, they compiled extensive dossiers on the most infamous of the super-villains, and they set up 24/7 surveillance on their primary targets…

In short, they had a front row seat as the Western governments collectively said, "screw this" and endorsed lethal force when dealing with the super-villain criminals. Various special police forces in United States, Canada, and Europe were created or bolstered. Their mission was to take the fight to the enemy with all the skill, experience, manpower, firepower, and resources their governments could give them. Within a matter of weeks, the threat was over.

Global Justice had spent too much time sharpening the axe, when they should have been chopping down the tree.

Global Justice railed against such draconian measures, and desperate to put the resources they had accumulated to use, offered to help less-developed countries with the super-villain threat.

Only to find that the problem that had menaced the West had never really been an issue in other parts of the world. The more heavy-handed governments had enacted the brutal -but effective- measures early on; the third world hadn't even needed that.

A perfect example of this is the case of Dr. Advika: he developed an early weather machine to cause drought in his home village in rural India. The villagers, upon learning of the mad-scientist's ability to cause all their crops to die, promptly burned him at the stake.

The sub-continents response to G.J.'s accusations of brutality was threefold: 1) That the village was a very different place than the county's capital of New Delhi. 2) The villagers' actions served both as a deterrent to those who would attempt similar crimes, and they also saved the government significant money on the special police forces that would have had to confront the criminal. 3) The man had tried to starve an entire village and had almost succeeded. So kindly fuck off, and mind your own damn business, you ignorant first-world bureaucrats!

Global Justice learned that in parts of Africa, Asia, and the Middle East that executions for super-villains were so ghastly that after the first few, almost no one with mental or physical enhancements had the courage to step out of line. If they revealed themselves at all.

After 9/11, Global Justice faded from insignificance to irrelevance as the United States began its War on Terror.

Now, G.J. was staffed mainly by analysts who kept track of the twenty or so remaining active super-villains and tried to locate unidentified "super-humans", or as they were more commonly known, "excepti".

They remained in obscurity for years, working for the United Nations. Just another cog in the world's largest and most-conflicted machine; until they heard about a redheaded cheerleader who had made it her hobby to fight crime… and win.

As he had done with every other significant part of his life, Ron had studied Global Justice carefully. He had looked into their history, mission objectives, and personnel. And what he found hadn't impressed him.

Global Justice was a mess.

Their mission was to identify the super-human's known -to the public- as the excepti, and coordinate between various international law-enforcement to handle various super-villain related problems.

Issues of invading the personal privacy of private citizens aside, G.J. was terrible at apprehending super-villains!

Global Justice had a mission that sounded like it was critically important, and yet in reality was handled by whatever national government the super-villain happened to be operating in!

Not the United Nations.

This led to G.J. becoming the organization for people who were incompetent, but too politically well-connected to be fired! This in turn led to Global Justice becoming one of the most bureaucratically inefficient resource-drains within the entire United Nations!

An organization that, itself, had never been known for its ability to get things done on time and on budget.

The thing that bugged Ron the most about the organization wasn't their lack of capability; rather, it was their lack of what Ron saw as professionalism.

Ron's entire exalted career at Mossad had involved him in doing very bad things to very bad people for very _good_ reasons. And he had done all of this without making a production out of any of it!

Ron routinely took out bad guys who would give "agents" such as Will Du nightmares with virtually no support network other than what tools or information his handlers could provide. He did this cleanly, quickly, and -with the exception of Vietnam- without getting on the news.

Whereas Global Justice seemed to think that the more money and bodies they threw at a problem the better it would be! To Ron at least, it seemed like Global Justice was all flash and no substance.

By comparison, Ron considered himself a super-dense light-sucking black hole.

If he had it his way, Ron would never interact with the self-proclaimed "single defense against villainy".

Unfortunately for him, Kim seemed to be enthralled with the organization: incompetent agents and all.

So, Ron was forced to put up with the organization… and worse, act like he was impressed.

* * *

"Ron!" Kim shouted, "You ready? We're almost to the drop zone."

Ron gave a theatric sigh -knowing that explaining that the bush plane they were in wasn't designed for parachuting would be useless- and gave his friend the thumbs-up.

Kim promptly jumped out of the plane.

A moment later, Ron joined her.

There is an art to falling out of the sky.

Even with instruments designed to measure altitude, speed, and velocity, and the most advanced parachutes available— it takes a lot of training to fall that far that fast without taking serious damage.

Kim Possible was the exception to that rule.

She leapt as gracefully as an Olympic diver from the plane and fell face-first until the last possible instant before doing a somersault midair and opening her chute.

She did this not with the ease of long practice, but with a sort of natural grace that can never quite be matched by those who do not have it.

In contrast Ron's fall was efficient and totally without fanfare. He would never win a Gold Medal for skydiving… he wouldn't even get a Bronze.

In the end though, they both landed efficiently and without breaking anything. Which was why it annoyed Ron when Kim shot him an amused glance. Although he returned it with an amiable enough grin, he was unable to totally repress the surge of irritation he felt.

He had just jumped out of a plane! And was about to go do battle with the forces of… well, not quite evil exactly, but certainly bad-tempered criminals.

And he was doing all of this without his gear, backup, or intelligence. Hell, he was doing all of this without a plan beyond what Kim liked to call, "Go in, kick butt!"

It was a constant source of irritation for Ron how Kim seemed to treat their missions like a game; even if it was a game they always won.

Speaking of games, the Assassin was fairly certain that they were being watched.

"Eye spy with my little eye something… furry with wings," muttered Ron under his breath.

Followed immediately by a shouted warning, "K.P.! On your right!"

Kim Possible had not become an international teen-heroine by collecting bottlecaps. She immediately sprang into a forward roll and narrowly avoided a flying _thing_ that had almost hit her in the face. She scooped up a solid looking fallen branch from the forest floor and hit the next creature in the face baseball-style.

For his part, Ron ducked off the path into the brush when two of the little flying monsters swooped down at him. They were going too fast to slow down and hit into the foliage with neck-breaking speed.

Although, given the hideous squelching sound they made, Ron figured that they had broken more than just their necks.

He grabbed a rock the size of a grapefruit and hurled it at the creature that had attacked them first.

It hit— hard.

The last creature fell to the hard earth with a messy thump.

"Good throw," Kim complimented her friend.

Ron gave her his best guileless grin, "Just dumb-skill K.P. 'Stick-and-stones' you know?"

Kim smiled at her sidekick, and then approached to examine the creatures. "This has DNAmy written all over it," she groused as she poked the dead animal with her stick.

This was immediately followed by a tangible amount of concern in her voice when she exclaimed, "Ron don't come over here!"

Ron heard, and disobeyed, coming over to his friend at a fast clip.

Then he paled and whispered in a barely audible murmur, "Oh shit, flying-monkeys."

* * *

Ron did not see the next few hours turning out well.

Monkeys were strong, intelligent, and ridiculously agile. And now a pair of supervillains had made it so that they could fly.

Missions weren't fair even before the bad guys had gotten air support. Now he and Kim had to attack a well-fortified hideout with flying scouts and attackers on their -thankfully tailless- butts.

" _And_ ," Ron thought with a shudder, " _hope that the flying monkeys aren't packing artillery._ "

As they traipsed though the heavy brush, taking advantage of the tree canopy to avoid aerial surveillance, Kim gave her friend a worried glance.

Ron did not have a good history with monkeys. ...Or Monkey Fist. Or even monkey related things.

In fact, Ron had made her throw out her Arctic Monkeys* album. Which sucked, because they were a great band.

Still though, Kim knew that when it counted -and even when it didn't- Ron would always come through for her.

Despite what their teachers and some of her friends and the world at large had been telling her since even before she had gotten into the world saving business; Ron Stoppable was solid.

And she'd gladly fight anyone who said differently.

"Hold up K.P. where here." Ron said, holding up his right fist in a military hand-sign that Kim thought he had probably gotten from a movie.

Kim approached the cabin slowly and silently.

Although it might be a stretch to call the two-story building embedded deep in the Colorado wilderness a mere "cabin".

It was large, with a wraparound front porch and obviously well-maintained. It had the feel of what Kim thought of as a millionaire's hunting lodge. Large, well-built, and rugged in a way only an architect born and raised in a major city can design.

Kim crept back to Ron and whispered her findings in his ear.

"Of course, no architect would have put the three flying monkeys on the roof" murmured Kim.

"Yeah," Ron whispered back, "can you imagine the fines from the Lollipop Guild?"

Kim snickered silently for a moment, then she was all business. "You ready?" she asked her friend.

"Got your back K.P." Ron answered.

* * *

Ron had three staples for surprise attacks: attack quickly with overwhelming aggression from unexpected angles.

With these as his base, Ron had pulled off operations that would have otherwise been impossible. They weren't pretty. And doing them wasn't glamorous or heroic… or even fair.

But all the same, they got the job done.

As he silently made his way down a desolate hallway, Ron had a moment to appreciate the irony that people thought that _he_ was _Kim's_ distraction.

While Kim made her dramatic entrance, listened to the villain's monologue, made witty banter, and had her mandatory kung-fu fight sequence— Ron would be searching for ether DNAmy's self-destruct button, or Monkey Fist's magical monkey McGuffin.

Ron mentally pulled up his mental map of the last known blueprints for the cabin that Wade had provided; and then felt a tiny claw scratch at his thigh.

Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pink rodent, "Hey bud, glad you're up, welcome to the party."

Rufus chittered excitedly, and then hopped down from Ron's palm and scurried down the hall and to the left.

Ron followed.

Ron found the naked mole rat found themselves in a large, rustic-looking kitchen. Rufus was chittering excitedly about something he had found on the kitchen counter.

Ron picked up the bottle and said, "Scotch huh? I should've figured Monty to be the type. What expect do you want me to do with this?"

Rufus chittered animatedly and hopped up and down, then quickly spread both of his tiny arms out wide and exclaimed, "Fwoosh!"

Ron looked askance, "We can't burn this! It's a Macallan 25. It's older than I am!"

For a rodent, Rufus was capable of remarkably humanlike eyerolls.

Ron began to rummage through the kitchen cabinets until he came up with two glass bottles filled with a clear liquid.

"Uhg, gin. I always thought that it tastes like diesel, but that might not be a such a bad thing here." Ron said, before turning to Rufus and ordering, "Go find some towels bud, we need to be Russian if we're going to get the drinks ready in time!"

* * *

 _"_ _This is sooo not going well."_ Kim thought, as she leapt away from one of the flying monkeys, only to be forced to bring up her quarterstaff -really a stick she had found in the forest, but it had held up so far- and block another's sweeping claws.

Normally, she would only have to deal one opponent at a time, but between the flying monkeys, Monkey Fist and his monkey ninjas, and the fact that she had virtually no room to maneuver; Kim was lucky if she only had to deal with two at once.

Even though she had more endurance than the majority of Olympic athletes, Kim did have limits. And right now, she was feeling them.

Few things are more exhausting then hand-to-hand combat, and Kim had been at it for a while.

She blocked a rush from a monkey ninja with her staff, and then snap kicked it away. Then she shot out her right arm and grabbed the wing of a passing flying monkey out of the air and hurled into the next charging assailant.

Kim pulled her staff in close to her body, took a few fast steps and threw herself away from the melee; going over a table in a roll and landing in a fighting stance facing her opponents.

Only for Monkey Fist to drop down on top of her.

He had been clinging to the ceiling like a spider…. Or, more appropriately, a spider-monkey.

Whatever type of animal-themed super-villain he was though, he had the teenaged girl pinned to the floor with his superior weight and leverage.

"So," Kim gasped out, panting heavily, "are you going to tell us how you've won? Or even what you've been trying to do?"

Monkey Fist opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a short, rotund woman wearing an annoyingly pink sweater came into the room.

"Kimmie!" cried DNAmy delightedly, "how is our favorite Cuddle-Buddy loving heroine?"

"Squished," Kim replied before trying to tilt her head up to face Monkey Fist, "you've put on weight."

Monkey Fist made a growling sound deep in the back of his throat, but again, DNAmy spoke before he could respond, "Oh, that's not nice Kimmie. And here I thought we were all friends."

As she said this in her saccharine tone of speech, DNAmy made little clucking sounds with her tongue. The kind that kindergarten teachers make when their charges will just not stop eating the paste.

"Yeah, I can see how all the times that I've sent you both to prison makes our friendship so special," retorted Kim, before she gave a grunt of pain as Monkey Fist put pressure on her shoulder.

"Insolent child," he exclaimed, "now, where one of you goes, the other follows. Tell us, where is the Pretender?!"

Kim didn't answer the villain's command, and so he asked a second time— putting even more pressure on Kim's overtaxed shoulder.

And again, Kim didn't answer; this time, she didn't even make a sound to relieve some of her pain.

Before Monkey Fist could ask her a third time, their came a rapping on the chamber door.*

Kim and Monkey Fist froze, but DNAmy simply produced a taser from her ample waistband and called out in a sing-song voice, "Who is it?"

"I'm from L. Frank Baum's* estate ma'am, I've been sent to investigate some intellectual property right violations," came the muffled reply from behind the door.

Kim was able to see a momentary look of confusion cross DNAmy's face, right before the door burst open and things began to happen very fast.

Ron let his first missile fly before he was even all the way into the room. Tossing his Molotov cocktail overhand, so that it flew across the room and smashed against a bulky bookshelf. The wood from the shelf caught fire almost as quickly as its over stocked paper contents.

The blaze was sudden, and huge, and surprisingly loud.

It was also very bright and hot; in other words, it was the perfect distraction.

Ron ran at where Monkey Fist had Kim pinned down and hit him in the head with the other bottle of liquid accelerant so hard that the bottle shattered and soaked the villain in gin.

Amazingly, the blow hadn't rendered Monkey Fist unconscious, but he was pretty out of it.

 _"_ _Damn,"_ thought Ron, _"talk about hard-headed."_

He didn't have time to dwell on it though, because he had to get Kim out from beneath the four-thumbed-man. Between the two of them, it hardly took more than a second.

"Hey Amy!" shouted Kim, "if you don't want a boyfriend who is _literally_ smoking-hot, I suggest that you come help Monkey Fist!"

It was hard to make out DNAmy's silhouette against the fire and the fleeing animals, but the teen heroes could just make out the woman approaching with what looked like a winged-gorilla— who was somehow able to ignore its animal instinct to flee the now rapidly growing blaze.

Ron looked at his friend to make sure she was alright.

"Okay Kim, villains thwarted. The lair's burning beautifully. DNAmy will save Monkey Man. So, let's skedaddle." Ron said.

Much to Ron's confusion, Kim frantically shook her head in the negative and said, "Ron, we need to recover the papers."

And before Ron could point out that the papers were probably ash, Kim had disappeared into the blaze.

Ron shared a meaningful look with Rufus, who for his part merely gave a shrug; as if to say, _Humans, what are you going to do?_

With a sigh, Ron scooped up the little guy and followed his friend into the inferno.

* * *

"Are you mad?" asked Kim.

A slightly crispy, soot covered Ron answered in his best passive-aggressive tone, "Mad? Why would I be mad? Could it be because after saving her from a mad-scientist and a kung-fu ninja -which makes zero sense by the way*-that said my best friend ran into a literal freaking fire! Just to get some paper that has information we can't even know about!"

Ron ended the last part in a voice that was near shouting. But, when he saw Kim guilt-stricken expression, he softened, and said in a noticeably calmer voice, "Look Kim, you can't keep taking these stupid risks. You know that I have your back no matter what, but I can only guard it if you slow down and don't pull dumb stunts like you just did."

Kim nodded. She knew that Ron was right. What she had done had been borderline suicidal, and it was only luck and her enhanced physiology that had allowed her to escape with only grimy hair and the hair on her arms burnt off.

Ron continued, "Look Kim, I know that sometimes being an excepti can sometimes make it seem like your invincible -and our success rate on missions doesn't help- but no matter what happens, you have to remember that no matter how fast or strong you are, no matter how well you heal, you're not invulnerable."

"Ron, I get it," Kim said, "but—"

Ron cut her off, "No buts K.P. I'm totally serious. You attacked a bunch of genetically modified, and or, trained attack animals with a _stick._ Then you ran through a building that was coming down around us, with no oxygen supply that we knew of, and it was on fire!"

Kim suddenly found her feet to be very interesting.

She knew what she had done was risky, but to hear it described like that was more than a little frightening.

She had recklessly endangered her life. Worse, she had put _Ron_ in danger totally needlessly. Kim felt more than a little ashamed of herself. If something had happened to him…

Kim brutally cut off her line of thinking. Ron was safe; at least for the moment.

 _"_ _Until I bite off more than I can chew, and he follows me into a fire one of us doesn't walk away form."_ Kim thought bitterly to herself.

And she knew that if the day came, Ron wouldn't hesitate to go with her into the fire.

Kim Possible had been gifted with many things; a loving family, a remarkable intellect, and the superhuman physical abilities that went along with being a Jouster.

But in her own opinion, her greatest gift was the friendship of Ron Stoppable. Ron, who was always there for her. Ron, who made her laugh. Ron, whose friendship and support seemingly knew no bounds.

Ron, who would follow her into Hell.

The last one was Kim's greatest joy and biggest fear.

Ron let out a breath.

He knew that he was being hard on Kim, but he needed her to stop and think.

Kim didn't have the training he did. In fact, even considering her gifts, Kim was doing a remarkable job on the whole "save the world thing".

As Ron saw it, the problem with Kim was that she was cocky. She had enough natural talent that she assumed that she could take on anything. And the hell of it was, she usually could!

Ron rarely had to assist her as he had today. Nevertheless, his biggest fear was that one-day, Kim would get in over her head, and he wouldn't be there to pull her out.

Ron was just thankful that that day hadn't been today.

"So, what's in the folder anyway?" Ron asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

Wordlessly, Kim handed over the documents.

Ron took them, and awkwardly gave Kim an affectionate pat on the shoulder, "Don't worry too much about it Kim, just… remember this chat next time you run into a burning building. Okay?"

Kim nodded, and, satisfied with her response, Ron opened the folder. And felt his heart drop into his stomach.

He recognized the name on the first page of the singed documents.

 _Dr. Vikas Singh._

* * *

 **The** ** _Artic_** **Monkeys are a fairly fantastic rock band. The first "quote" is paraphrased** **from** ** _The Raven_** **, by Edgar Allen Poe. L. Frank Baum wrote** ** _The Wizard of Oz_** **, which in public domain now. Kung-fu is Chinese in origin, while everyone who has seen TMNT knows that ninjas are rooted in Japan.**


	4. Date Night

**The Kidon**

 **Chapter Four**

 **Date Night**

* * *

The rest of the week pasted in a slow blur.

Ron had a immediately reported his discovery of Monkey Fist's and DNAmy's interest in Dr. Singh to Marty. Marty had claimed to be as out of the loop, assuming that Mossad was at all aware of the villains' interest, and Ron had believed him.

Marty had almost as many skeletons in his closet as a politician, but he had never withheld information that would put Ron in unnecessary risk. So, for now Ron had to simply suck it up, and live with his paranoia.

At least, Ron hoped it was paranoia, and that something wasn't actually out to get him.

Again.

Whatever happened, Ron hoped that it would take place over the weekend. He really couldn't afford to miss any more school.

Well, it wasn't like he had ever needed a diploma to earn money before. Mossad had recruited him before he was shaving regularly— Ron doubted that they would care about less than stellar grades. Especially if he continued to operate with the incredible rate of success he had come to be known for.

As he left his final class on Friday, Ron reflected that after Vietnam, Mossad would be willingly to do near anything to assure his continued employment.

"Hey baby boy," called a friendly voice.

Ron turned his head to view the beautiful dark-skinned girl behind him. He gave her his smile that he privately thought of as 'goofily charming.'

"Hey Monique," he replied, "how's my competition doing?"

An odd look crossed Monique's face, "Uh," she replied confusedly.

Ron brightened his smile a bit, "Just kidding around Mon. No worries, I'm secure in my position as Kim's co-best friend."

Monique smiled back, relieved to know what was up, and said, "I think you might be giving me a little too much credit baby boy. Everyone knows you and Kim are joined at the hip."

Ron shuddered. And when he saw the expression on Monique's face, he explained, "Flashback to the time I had to sleep with Mr. B."

Monique smile turned into a leer, "Now that's a fun thought."

Ron blanched and protested, "No. No, No! We were glued together with super-science! No hanky-panky!"

Monique smirked, "Methinks that you doth protest too much."*

Ron covered his wince at the mangled Shakespeare with a mock glare.

Monique laughed. And Ron's faux hurt look turned into a self-effacing smile.

"So," Monique asked once she had calmed down, "any plan's while Kim's busy with the squad?"

Ron shrugged, "I'm probably going to go home and crash, it's been a rough week."

Ron punctuated this with a massive, and not entirely false, yawn.

Between the gunfight in Paris, and the retrieval in the sticks, Ron was wiped. He had still had to do his usual physical training; and he had to spend his Saturday and Sunday shooting with Marty.

Okay, so _that part_ Ron was actually kind of looking forward to.

* * *

Ron rode his Indian Scout motorcycle with the ease of long practice.

He was happy. He had finished his workout and felt good. Moreover, he didn't have to get up early the next day to go to school. He was mostly done with homework, and Marty had promised him use of the suppressed Sako .338LM sniper rifle on Sunday.

Things looked good for the weekend, but for the moment, Ron was more than content to simply ride his bike and enjoy the evening air.

As he reached a long stretch of unoccupied, Ron sped up. He loved the power of the machine, the speed which it could lend him, and the knowledge that he could handle it so well.

He could almost feel the wind rustle his hair through his helmet; it was glorious.

Ron regretfully slowed as he pulled into the parking lot of the playhouse. But he figured that it was just as well; he had been wanting to see a Wilde play for years, and _The Importance of Being Earnest_ was his favorite.

The playhouse was selling hot apple cider, and after showing his ticket, Ron bought a cup and a small bag of pretzels before taking his third-row seat

The playhouse wasn't particularly large. The place where they actually showed the plays was mostly a stage with small table and chair sets on risers surrounding it.

Still, Ron liked the place well enough. It was cozy and the cider was excellent.

Ron found his table and was mildly perturbed to find that there were two chairs at his table.

 _"_ _Oh well,"_ thought Ron, _"not a big deal."_

The playhouse liked to set two to a table for couples and to save space. Ron had called ahead to reserve a single, but it was probably too late to get it taken care of now.

Just as Ron settled in for the wait before the performance, a lithe figure approached his table. Ron turned to regard his tablemate and smiled,

"Hello Connie."

Connie blinked in surprise, and then she smiled warmly at Ron. "Ron, hi. I was wondering if I would run into you here."

Ron nodded, also smiling, "Well, here I am. And it looks like we'll be sharing the table."

Connie smirked and held up a baggie of almonds, "Good, I'll trade some nuts for a few pretzels."

A short blonde with a pageboy haircut gave a cough from the next table over. Connie blushed a bit and waved at her in a shooing motion. Then she turned back to Ron.

"My friend, sorry. I'm sort of on a girls' night with a few old friends from high school," she explained.

"Sounds fun," commented Ron.

Connie opened her mouth, but any remark she would have made was cut off when the director came on stage to announce the play.

The play was good. Connie was sure of that because of the reactions of the other audience members. For her part though, she kind of felt as though she missed out on a few key scenes.

She had been busy checking out Ron.

She thought that he filled out his grey silk t-shirt and blue-jeans rather well, and when he had left to purchase two cups of cider during the intermission -one for him and one for her- she had enjoyed the sight of him walking away even more than the hot apple drink.

 _"_ _Easy girl,"_ the college sophomore told herself silently while the actors argued about the proper protocol for eating muffins, _"he's still in high school."_

Her self-rebuke did not stop her from wishing that she had worn something more flattering. She was wearing a snug pair of jeans, a comfortably-tight black turtleneck, and the cowgirl boots from the first time she had met Ron. Perfect for catching up with old friends, but she thought that it might be a little light for a potential date.

The play ended with the actor who played act Jack telling how he had learned the value of honesty… or knowing one's lineage; maybe both. Connie wasn't sure and she didn't particularly care. She had enjoyed her evening immensely without getting into literary analysis.

She liked catching up with her friends. And Ron was hot and really fun to flirt with.

For his part, Ron enjoyed the play slightly more than he enjoyed Connie's company. But that was more of a reflection of Wilde's genius and the theatre group's skill than on anything negative Connie may have done. He decided that he was hungry -theatre food is an insufficient meal, no matter how good the cider- and he wanted ask Connie to join him. She was excellent company and Ron thought it would be nice to buy her dinner.

The actors took their bows and everyone clapped, the performance had been excellent.

"Do you want to get dinner with me?" asked Ron once the curtains came down.

Connie beamed, "I'd love to. When?"

Ron blinked, and then smiled, "Now. Assuming that works for you, of course."

Connie shrugged in a _just go with it_ manner, and Ron was extremely interested in what the movement did to her chest.

"Sure, I could eat. Just let me say goodnight to my friends," she said.

Ron slipped into his leather jacket and smiled, "Great, you okay riding a motorcycle?"

Connie's bright smile turned into something magnificent, and Ron had his answer.

* * *

As Connie sat in the little 24-hour Greek diner, she swore that at the first opportunity she was going to learn to ride a motorcycle. The ride to the diner had been amazing! She couldn't remember the last time she had so much fun.

And, Connie decided, motorcycles were definitely a 'chick-magnet'; at least with her. Ron had been in complete control of his bike, and as Connie wrapped her arms around his waist, she had been amazed at the raw mastery he had exhibited over the machine.

She watched as Ron bit into his gyro.

 _"_ _He doesn't even get any sauce on himself,"_ she thought to herself, impressed with his casually graceful movements.

She smiled a little as she speared a piece of chicken souvlaki from her salad; if she had ordered anything with tzatziki sauce she would have ended up wearing it. Not Ron though, he didn't seem to worry… like, at all.

Ron raised an eyebrow at her and asked lightly, "What's up?"

Connie realized that she had been staring, she smiled unsurely for a moment, and then she made her decision.

"Can I have a French fry?" she asked.

"Sure," said Ron, "you want to split an order of baklava for dessert?"

Connie gave him a smile that -if her father had seen it- would have gotten her thrown into a covenant.

She leaned in close so that she could whisper in Ron's ear, "Actually, I had something else in mind for— _dessert_."

Connie woke up slowly, as people who have nothing to hurry them out of the comfort of bed often do. The only thing that could have made it better was if when she had woken up Ron had still been with her.

* * *

She had never had a one-night stand before.

 _"_ _Still,"_ she thought, _"no regrets."_

Last night had been a lot of fun. She hadn't expected a high school boy to be so skilled, but she supposed that there were worse surprises to be had when sleeping with someone for the first time.

The door to her bedroom opened and Connie almost fell out of bed in shocked disbelief: had her parents come back from their weekend away early?

Ron entered with two western-style omelets balanced on one arm and a pot of coffee and a pair of mugs held in the other.

"Hungry?" he asked.

Connie recovered quickly, and answered, "Famished."

Ron grinned, knowing exactly why she so ravenous. After all, last night had revved up his appetite as well.

The two dug into their omelets. One occasionally stealing lingering looks at the other, perfectly content to spend the morning exactly as they were.

When they were finished, Ron asked if he could use the shower. Connie assured him that it was fine, and he went to wash-up.

Connie sprawled out on her bed, clad only in a _Rolling Stones_ sleep-shirt and panties, and let herself sink into the mattress. She sighed happily. Last night had been amazing, breakfast had been wonderful -and best of all- it was looking like she would be having seconds. She heard the shower running, and after a moment's pause, she got up so that she could offer to wash Ron's back.

* * *

Ron desperately tried to get his breathing back under control. His body was soaked in sweat; his left knee wouldn't stop shaking; he was exhausted. But overall, he felt fantastic!

"You going to be okay?" an equally exhausted -and naked- Connie asked.

"Yes— but I can't feel my legs. Is that bad?" Ron asked between heavy breaths.

Connie let loose a throaty chuckle, "Whiner, you didn't spend the morning getting sawn in half."

Ron rolled over on his side and propped himself up on an elbow, "Is that a complaint?"

In response, Connie pushed him onto his back. Then, she threw one long, toned, leg over his waist so that she could straddle him.

As she pressed her hot mouth into his, she murmured, "Good God no."

* * *

"I never would have figured you for a _MST3K_ * fan." Ron said to Connie.

"What, because I'm hot I can't enjoy classic science fiction?" answered Connie; who was indeed looking ''hot'' in a pair of navy short shorts and a loose _Led Zeppelin_ t-shirt.

Ron turned away from the TV so that he could look at his couch-mate, "Basically, I can't even get Kim to watch _Star Trek_ with me."

Connie snuggled closer into him and pecked his nose, "Well, her loss is my gain."

Ron smirked and gave Connie a light kiss on the mouth.

And then another…

a nibble on her ear…

a trail of sweet kisses down the nape of her neck…

Finally, he pressed her down into the couch. And, for a while at least, Connie lost all interest in classic science fiction.

* * *

Ron took another slice of sausage topped mozzarella pizza and toasted Connie with it.

It would have been delicious even if they hadn't been starving. As it was, after their last bout the two had been ravenous.

Fortunately, Mario's delivered in under thirty minutes.

Connie took a swig of ice water -spilling a bit so that it trickled enticingly down her neck- and then followed Ron's example, and took the last slice.

"You didn't want this, did you?" she asked.

"No," Ron said with a wave of his pizza slice, "I think I can _Lady and the Tramp*_ it this one time."

Connie didn't even wait for Ron to finish before she tore off a huge mouthful of cheesy goodness.

Ron grinned at the sight. There was something primal in it. And despite their recent activities, he enjoyed seeing Connie indulge in this way as well.

Ron decided that Connie must have intuited his thoughts, because she smirked and raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"Again?" she questioned.

Ron was far past the point where he could be embarrassed by her tone, so he simply shrugged magnanimously and returned her smirk.

Connie popped the last bit of pizza bone into her mouth and said, "Give me a minute to wash up— I don't want to get any tomato sauce on you."

She rose and walked over to the sink. Ron followed her and slipped his strong arms around her trim waist. As Connie ran water over her hands as Ron began nibbling on her neck; Connie giggled.

The moment that she turned off the water Ron scooped her up and carried her to her back to the kitchen table.

The pizza was thankfully gone… but some garlic knots fell on the floor and grew cold.

* * *

Bonnie Rockwaller thought that her weekend was off to a great start.

She had attended a party on Friday night where she had secured a date with the school's baseball star. Pickings had been rough after Brick had finally graduated. After the party, she had crashed at Tara's house.

The gin that she had consumed at the party hadn't been enough to get her seriously drunk, but her friend felt that it was better for Bonnie to spend the night with her because the Rockwaller parents where at a weekend getaway.

Besides, Tara's house was closer.

Bonnie had woken with a headache, but several aspirin and a few bottles of spring water had made the cheerleader feel much better. She had dressed in clothes that she stored at Tara's place and the two had gone to the Middleton Mall for most of the day.

Tara had bought a new pair of sneakers and Bonnie had purchased a couple of cute tops with her credit card. The two had gotten salads for lunch, and -after storing their bags in Tara's Honda Civic- they had gone to see a movie.

Bonnie walked up the steps to her house with her blonde best friend at her heels. They planned to go to another party tonight; one reserved exclusively for the "in crowd". Bonnie was especially pleased with this, she was thrilled that no one who wasn't high enough on the Food Chain would be there tonight.

As the girls entered the house, they noticed something off.

"Something smells funky," Tara said wrinkling her nose.

Bonnie spotted the drying wet spot on the living-room's leather couch.

"Looks like dear old big sister Connie's been studying how to be a slut at college," commented Bonnie snidely.

"I thought that she was going to be an English teacher," said Tara confusedly.

Bonnie sighed, "Look, it's like, if Connie wants to drag random guys back to her lair at school, fine! But this is _my_ house. If she won't let me have a party while Mom and Dad are gone, then, like, she doesn't get to get laid!"

Bonnie finished her rant with a voice approaching a shriek.

Tara winced, when Bonnie got like this, it was usually better to just give in to whatever she wanted without a fuss. It was easier on her eardrums.

Bonnie began to march upstairs towards Connie's bedroom. Tara followed behind her,

"Bonnie, wait. This is a really bad idea."

Bonnie didn't wait.

She marched right up to her older sister's room, and -hearing the rhythmically frenetic squeaking of the mattress- threw open the door.

What she saw was burned into her mind forever.

Her older sister was on all fours at the center of the bed moaning; her heaving chest making her generous breast sway; her eyes half-lidded with an expression of sexual ecstasy splayed across her face.

Behind Connie a man thrust into her while he held her long hair in the grip of one of is clenched fists. The other hand stroked her ass, her waist -her entire body it seemed- from the way that she shivered with delight at his touch.

The man's pace quickened, and Connie's moans became mewls and growls of satisfaction. Finally, after what seemed to be a lifetime of pleasure, Connie gasps became more frantic and, with another well-positioned thrust, the man tore a throaty cry of ecstasy from the brunette as she reached climax.

The man behind her roared as he finished, and the oblivious lovers collapsed onto the bed; shuddering, satisfied, spent, and completely blissed out.

Connie's cooing at Ron Stoppable finally broke Bonnie and Tara from their paralysis.

Bonnie let loose a primeval scream and slammed the door shut.

* * *

 **My outside references are:**

 **Hamlet (again),**

 **Oscar Wilde's** ** _The Importance of Being Earnest._**

 **Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K).**

 **Refers to the famous "Meatball" scene in the Disney movie** ** _The Lady and the Tramp._**

 _*_ **Normally, I would not write such a graphic love scene so early on in a story. However, I needed to put emphases on what Ron and Connie were doing in order to put the next chapter's ramifications in perspective.**


	5. The Most Dangerous Game— is a Naked Mole

**The Kidon**

 **Chapter Five**

 **The Most Dangerous Game— is a Naked Mole Rat**

* * *

Marty had not been pleased that Ron had missed training. Still, when Ron had explained what he had been doing, and who he had been doing it too, Marty had at least accepted the younger man's reasons as an unavoidable consequence of youth.

Ron had still had to run an extra ten miles though.

Ron inhaled slowly, the weekend had been fantastic— even with all the extra running. But it was Monday now, and Bonnie hadn't been his biggest fan even before he had sex with her sister all over her house. As he passed through the doors of Middleton High School, Ron felt the familiar deluge of adrenaline hit his system.

It was ridiculous he knew; a totally unnecessary and involuntary reaction. But there it was. He was nervous, and body was treating him to the same chemical response that had kept him alive in combat so many times. Ron doubted that he would have any serious threats to his personal safety in an American school, but he was going to do his best to remain invisible during school hours for the rest of the week.

Worse still, he really didn't want to have a conversation with Kim about how he had sex with her rival's older sister. His sex life was another one of the things that Ron kept hidden from Kim. And while he felt bad about not telling his best friend who he had shagged, he felt so much worse about using her for his cover while he killed people that it almost didn't register.

Until the possibility of getting caught came up.

Ron snorted to himself with a sort of dreary amusement, _"I feel no remorse until I get caught,"_ Ron thought to himself, _"maybe I am a sociopath."_

Ron let out his breath, and he ghosted to his first class.

* * *

Kim Possible wasn't sure to be worried or annoyed.

Ron had hadn't walking her to school this morning, and she hadn't seen him all day, and they hadn't talked over the weekend. She knew that Ron didn't rely on her nearly as much as most people seemed to think, but Kim still worried when she didn't hear from him at least once a day.

As she sat in her honors calculus class she couldn't help noticing something off. Bonnie was being uncharacteristically quiet. It had been a nasty streak of luck that had placed her rival in six of Kim's classes.

Still, Kim couldn't help but wonder what had gotten under the girl's skin; Bonnie was too mean to be depressed or tired, so…

 _"_ _Oh no"_ Kim thought, _"she's plotting."_

Kim didn't know what her rival was planning, or whether or not it involved her, but she decided that it was suddenly much more important for her to find Ron.

* * *

Tara literally ran into Ron.

Ron, who had been hoping to find a private place to eat his lunch alone, was less than pleased with this. He liked Tara, she was pretty, sweet, and even though he had turned her down the one time that she had asked him out, she had never held that against him.

But Tara was Bonnie's best friend, and Ron figured that he was _numero uno_ on Bonnie's shit list.

For her part, Tara bounced off of the larger blonde with an "oof", and would have fallen if Ron's reflexes hadn't been fast enough to catch her.

Tara began to apologize, and then she realized who she had just slammed into and what he had been doing the last time she had seen him. She turned a startling shade of crimson and began to stutter,

"R-Ron, hey!" she said in a slightly squeaky voice, "who have you been doing lately?"

Her already crimson face turned an even deeper of ruby red when she grasped her Freudian slip,

"What! What! I meant ' _What_ have you been doing lately?!'"

By the time she had finished, Ron couldn't help but be fondly reminded of Rufus as the girl's face turned pinker and pinker, and her voice grew higher and higher.

Ron gave her a practiced reassuring smile, and said in a voice that was both calm and comforting, "Tara, it's okay. Take a breath, and just, _relax_."

Tara looked like she wanted to argue for a moment, but after a moments consideration, she composed herself. Ron was right, she wouldn't do any good if she couldn't even speak properly.

Tara -who still looked more than a little flushed- started talking in a rapid and earnest tone, "Ron, Bonnie is, like, really, really, mad about," she blushed again, before continuing, "what you and Connie were, um, _doing_."

Ron nodded, he had been expecting nothing less.

"I kind of figured. I assume that that's why you were sprinting through the hall?" he asked.

Tara nodded so frantically that Ron worried about her injuring her neck, "Bonnie's getting some of the football players and Big Mike and Vinnie to beat you up after school. Ron, they're going to really hurt you."

Ron was touched by the cheerleader's concern. But his thoughts were mostly busy processing the threat.

It took less than a second for Ron to weigh the risks and complete his threat assessment; it was manageable.

The hostiles wouldn't confront him in front of witness, so they would make their move outside of school. He would either have to evade or meet force with force. If he evaded he would merely be putting off the confrontation for a later date; if he met force with force though…

Ron took inventory; he was in good physical condition -meaning he didn't have any actively bleeding wounds-; he was armed with a Benchmade Griptilain in his front pocket and a FS Hideaway knife hidden away on his person; additionally, he had a .45 caliber Glock 21 equipped with a Surefire tac-light, a Silencerco Osprey 45K and two extra magazines in a concealed compartment in his backpack.

Firepower wouldn't be a problem.

The issue would be taking down what would be at least four opponents down without anyone making a fuss about it. He couldn't simply shoot, stab, and fight his way out. These weren't enemy combatants he was dealing with, these were children!

Children who were planning to assault someone on the say-so of a total bitch; but still! They had no idea that they were going up against something that was infinitely deadlier than anything they had ever encountered.

No, in order to maintain his cover, he would have to do this smart.

Ron graced Tara with a grateful smile. Without her, he wouldn't have had the few hours to put the finishing touches on the plan that had already formed in his head.

"Tara, thanks for the warning. I appreciate it, but don't worry, alright? Kim and I have dealt with way worse than a couple of bullies. I'll be fine." Ron told her reassuringly.

Tara looked relieved, "Okay. You're right Ron. But about Bonnie, she's not a bad person. She's just mad about you having crazy hot sex with her sister."

* * *

When Tara realized her second Freudian slip, she turned the deepest shade of red yet, and promptly fled down the hallway.

Ron watched her as she bolted and managed not to laugh… barely.

* * *

Ron tried to look nervous as he sized up the seven high school thugs.

Bonnie really had outdone herself. Ron had been expecting the D-Hall bullies -Vinnie and Big Mike- of course, and a member or three from the football team, but this was ridiculous.

Two bullies, a member of the varsity wrestling team, and four members of Middleton's varsity football team. All of the varsity athletes were around two-hundred pounds and stood about six feet tall. Big Mike had half-a-foot and fifty pounds on all of them— Ron was pretty sure that he could toss Vinnie around like a dwarf bowler though.

Ron tried to look nervous -not anticipatory- as he waved at the group and said, "What's up Doc?"*

One of the football players stepped forward, obviously the spokesman, "You disrespected Rockwaller punk. That ain't gonna fly. We're gonna teach you a lesson."

The thugs behind him nodded eagerly. Bloodlust in their eyes. The excitement of the coming violence causing the wrestler to sneeze.

Or maybe he had allergies.

Ron held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "Look, this is all a big misunderstanding. Why don't we all calm down here and—"

"Get him!" shouted one of the punks. Ron couldn't tell who. Like Mr. Burns' pack of vicious hound from the Simpsons, they came at Ron.

Without another word, Ron turned tail and ran.

* * *

The group chased Ron down an alley about a quarter mile from the school parking lot where they had confronted him. It was surprisingly difficult to catch up with him. Part of that was because they were in a group, and thus only as fast as their slowest runner. But it was also because Ron was damn fast.

The gang of miscreants were disappointed to find that the alley wasn't a dead end. Even worse, it was had two dumpsters and it smelled. The football player who had elected himself leader -the one Ron had called Doc- called a halt.

"Okay, he's slippery. We're going to split up into pairs and run him down. It's easiest if we divide and conquer. Text when one of us catches him."

One of the other football players raised a hand, "Uhh, they're seven of us."

Doc nodded, "I'll go alone. We're wasting time," he looked at them, "well, what are you waiting for? Go!"

The group dispersed. Three pairs and Doc going on to try and catch Ron, and Big Mike and Vinnie retracing the route to try and catch Ron doubling back.

"I gotta piss." Big Mike told his smaller friend.

Vinnie considered saying something, but settled for rolling his eyes and leaving the alley.

Big Mike undid his fly and took out little Mike with a sigh.

Ron rolled silently from out behind a dumpster with a length of what had once been a dog leash wrapped in his fists.

Big Mike didn't notice the stealthy blonde until he had a makeshift garrote around his throat. Even then, he didn't have a chance to identify his assailant before the blackness overtook him and sent him to dreamland.

Ron was continually amazed by how quickly a lack of oxygen could take someone out.

"Yo Mike!" called Vinnie, "what's the holdup? You takin' a deuce or what?"

Ron stayed silent. Vinnie came into the alley and froze.

Ron wagged a finger at him and then pointed to Big Mike's unconscious form. "Don't look at his penis, he's Bashful."

Ron watched as Vinnie's face went from startled, to confused, to fearful, and then, finally, to angry. With a roar that was not at all correspondent to his size, Vinnie rushed Ron.

Ron snap kicked him in the head.

Vinnie flew back and flopped to the ground unconscious. At least, Ron hoped that he was unconscious. Kicking him in the head like that had been stupid and dangerous. Ron's kicks were powerful, and Vinnie had been moving quickly. But as Ron checked his pulse and spine, he was relieved to find the smaller bully merely Sleepy.

Ron sighed with relief and thought, _"It would have been really embarrassing if I had killed him by accident."_

Ron stashed his backpack -along with his pistol inside it- and then went to the diner that was besides the alley and ordered Rufus a plate of cheesy-fries.

"I'll be back in a bit buddy, I just have to take care of some things."

Rufus glared, "Call Kim." the mole rat ordered.

Ron shook his head saying, "No, I'll take of this. It'll take an hour, hour-and-a-half tops. I promise."

Rufus still looked unhappy, but didn't argue anymore. Ron had incredible survival instincts for a human. If he thought that something wasn't too dangerous, then he was probably right.

Ron reached out with his finger and stroked Rufus' flank, "Love you bud. I'll be back in a bit. Enjoy the cheese."

Grinning wolfishly, Ron placed a twenty on the table, and left to hunt the hunters.

* * *

The wrestler sneezed again and his partner glared at him, "Seriously man, what is wrong with you?" he demanded.

The wrestler sniffled before answering, "Allergies."

This earned a sneer from the football player, who spat and said, "If I wasn't paired with a fucking snot-rag like you I would have caught that twat by now."

Sneezy glared at his companion, "Fuck you man. I can't help it."

Grumpy returned the look with equal intensity, and then launched himself at Sneezy. Tackling the wrestler down onto the grass.

Ron watched from behind his newspaper while sitting on a conveniently placed park bench. He felt more than a little amusement at the spectacle.

 _"_ _This is almost too easy."_ he thought.

Ron watched the two fight for a moment. His money was on the wrestler -allergies or no allergies- but when he spotted the approaching pair of policemen, he decided that he really didn't need to know the outcome.

As he walked away, Ron thought to himself, _"Way too easy."_

Immediately after he thought this, Ron started to feel like he was being watched. He didn't look around to spot who it was though.

He already knew.

Ron turned so that he was heading into the woods. Hyperaware of the tails that he had developed. He had a plan to deal with them. It was surprisingly difficult to move quickly in dense vegetation, and when one did, it was nearly impossible to keep quiet. A surprisingly small number of people could move quickly and quietly through the woods.

Needless to say, Ron was one of them.

When he began to hear twigs and branches snap behind him, Ron circled back so that he would appear directly behind his pursuers.

Doc was there of course; he had brought along two of his friends from the football team.

One of them was using his cellphone for a flashlight, the illumination painting a macabre smile on his face. Despite it getting dark in deep woods, he looked Happy.

Ron supposed that this made the last football player Dopey by default.

Ron crept up behind him, and wrapped his arms around Dopey's neck so that he could choke him unconscious. The others didn't notice that Ron had pulled a member of their group into the dark before it was already too late.

If there had been more light, than Ron's smile would have glowed like the Cheshire Cat's* as the remaining bullies started shouting for their missing friend.

Happy -who was no longer smiling- grabbed Doc by the front of his shirt and said in a panicky voice, "What the fuck man! Where the hell is Jim?!"

Doc shoved Happy off him and said, "Calm down. He probably just lost. We'll text him and meet by the playground. I mean, if he hasn't bailed like those ass-hats from D-Hall."

Happy nodded, seeming to get a hold on himself. He started to smile again. At least he wasn't getting taken down to the police station like those two idiots who decided to turn on each other. Happy thought about how, even though tonight had been a complete waste, he could still get back home okay and watch some T.V. His mom was making peach cobbler tonight too. Happy's grin broadened; everything would work out fine.

Ron did not like this at all. So, he snuck up behind Happy and hit him in the back of the head with a rock.

Doc wheeled around as Happy fell limply to the ground. He almost turned fast enough to spot Ron slipping seamlessly back into the brush. But not quite.

"Who's out there?!" Doc shouted.

Ron remained silent.

"Stoppable!" screamed Doc, "if that's you then you're a dead man!"

To emphasis his point, Doc waved a fist in the air in a threatening manner. He shouted and challenged and screamed. He ranted and raved. He waved his fists in the air while stomping around the woods. In short, he did anything a frightened, sullen child would do if they get lost in the woods while playing a game that they're suddenly no longer winning.

Ron found the performance to be adorable.

It was only when Doc pulled out his phone -presumably to call for help- that Ron stepped into the small clearing that Doc had found his way into.

Doc face went pale, and his voice quavered slightly when he asked, "Where the hell did you come from?"

Ron gave him a predatory smile before shrugging and replying, "I took a wrong turn at Albuquerque."*

For whatever reason, Doc shuddered at the response and took a step back. Maybe it was Ron's flippant answer. Maybe it was the way that he stood in the middle of the woods so casually, even as the sun was going down. Maybe it was how Ron appeared to be so relaxed about being hunted. Or, maybe, because he was a bully -a kind of social predator- Doc recognized that Ron was a predator as well.

 _"_ _He's higher up on the food-chain than I am."_ Doc thought.

And for once, this thought had nothing to do with Middleton high school's social hierarchy.

Doc shook off the thought, embarrassed. This was Stoppable for crying out loud. The loser! The sidekick to the freaking cheerleader! He could take him. He would make that pansy-ass loser beg him to stop the pain Doc would put him through for making him doubt himself.

And after he had beaten Stoppable within an inch of his life, he was totally going to nail Bonnie Rockwaller.

With that thought in mind, Doc let out a battle cry and charged at Ron.

Ron ducked the first wild swing and came up into Doc's guard with a hit to the solar plexus. Doc fell to one knee with the air coming out of him making a 'whooshing' noise.

Ron slammed a palm into Doc's jaw. Then, when Doc took another wild swing at him, Ron grabbed his arm and pulled— over-extending the elbow.

Doc cried out in pain.

Ron hit him in the throat with the bridge of his hand, between the thumb and the forefinger.

Doc shut-up.

As Doc pulled himself into a ball on the forest floor -struggling to breathe- Ron took a moment to kick his opponent while he was down three times in each of his kidneys.

Ron took a few steps away from the shaking boy. It wouldn't do if the hostile lashed out and managed to take Ron by surprise after all. Not that Ron thought that Doc was faking his injuries, or would be fast enough to take him by surprise even if he was, but Ron had been trained to be careful. Meticulous, even.

"Someone's going to be pissing blood tomorrow." said Ron in a creepily friendly voice.

Doc whimpered from his spot on the ground. He had never been in so much pain in his life. Not when he had broken his arm falling off his bike when he was ten. Not when he was tackled while playing football. Not even the time he had cut his junk while zipping up his jeans— and that had left scars!

"Come on," said Ron, "it's not that bad. Definitely not as bad as you would have done to me."

Doc didn't respond; preferring to cradle his injured arm.

Ron sighed; this was going to get messy.

Ron pulled out his folding knife and opened it to reveal the black-coated serrated blade. Ron then walked over to Doc -who had become very still at the sight of the knife- and knelt beside him.

"If you ever come after me again," Ron began, "I won't be as nice as I've been this time. I will hurt you. Not like you're hurt now. Right now, you feel pain, but you'll get better. It won't even take that long before you feel as good as new. But, if you try this again, you won't get better. I'll hurt you in ways that make what you're feeling now seem insignificant in comparison. And that pain will last. Oh yes. It will be there the day after I hurt you, and the week after, and the month after, and so on. Who knows, if you really tick me off, I might make it so that you die in pain… Of course, that might cut down on the total time suffered."

Then, to both their surprise, a pinkish shadow blurred through the air and landed on Doc's face; sharp teeth bit into Doc's nose. Rufus -who had long since finished his cheesy snacks- jumped back and away from the larger creature and scrambled up Ron's leg, hissing demonically.

Doc's bladder let go.

Ron ignored this, and continued, "See, here's the thing; I don't enjoy hurting people, but that doesn't mean that I'm not good at it. It's a talent. And even if I don't like the results of my talent, I really enjoy using it. Who doesn't like doing something that they're good at? Especially if that something can be so damn useful? That's the thing, only let myself use my talent if I have a good reason to do so. Otherwise, I just keep it bottled up until I have a reason to let it out. So, are you going to give me a reason?"

Doc let out another whimper that Ron assumed was a negative.

"Fantastic!" exclaimed Ron, "I'm so glad we had this little talk."

Ron put Doc's phone in his non-damaged hand. It was a safe bet that the teenager could text one-handed. Then he stood, took two large steps straight back, turned, and melted into the woods.

* * *

 **The two quotes are from Bugs Bunny. Cheshire Cat is a character from Lewis Carroll's** ** _Alice in Wonderland_** **. And the band of bullies' fake names were taken from Disney's version of** ** _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves—_** **I'm kind of on a Disney movie kick right now.**

 **Which reminds me, why no** ** _Fantasia 2000_** **and** ** _Mystery Science Theater 3000_** **crossover fanfiction? It could be called,** ** _Mystery Fantasia 2500_** **! Anyone can more than feel free to take that and roll with it.**

 **The Title is a play on the title from the classic short story** ** _The Most Dangerous Game_** **by Richard Connell.**


	6. Happy Birthday

**The Kidon**

 **Chapter Six**

 **Happy Birthday**

* * *

Ron's breathing was ragged and labored. He had almost completed his fifth five-minute mile, and the only thing in the world that he wanted more than a drink of water, was to stop running.

In the far-off section of his brain that wasn't starved for oxygen, Ron wondered what motivated professional runners more: winning, water, or stopping. Ron wasn't entirely certain, but he was pretty sure that it wasn't the first one.

With an effort of will, Ron stopped his mind from wandering off with his runner's high and focused on his form.

Step, step, breathe, step, step, breathe.

Ron's breathing became even more labored as he passed the tree that marked the last two-hundred meters on the forest trail— Ron's run turned into a sprint.

Ron blew past the finish line in something approximating a blur and collapsed to the ground three seconds later.

"24:36," Marty read off the stop watch, "not terrible."

Even if Ron had been able to spare the breath he wouldn't have had the energy to retort. Much less complete whatever sadistic physical challenge Marty would give him in revenge. So, he just laid there, and tried to breathe without vomiting.

Marty wordlessly offered Ron a hand up so he could walk it off. Ron took it.

Lactic-acid buildup is a bitch.

Ron began to stretch out his exhausted muscles while Marty went to grab a duffel bag from the back of his truck. When Marty returned, he pulled a suppressed LWRC AR-15 out of the bag and handed the weapon and its suppressor to Ron.

Ron steadied his hands, and then expertly field stripped the rifle before reassembling it. Satisfied with its condition, he screwed on the suppressor and rocked in a 30 round magazine of subsonic .223 ammo. He lined-up the rifle's ACOG scopes with his right eye and began sending rounds into iron targets the size of dinner plates 500 meters downrange.

Marty was pleased with Ron's accuracy. But, Marty reflected that he had always had a gift with firearms… and knives. Explosives. Poisons. A towel that one time.

Ron was very good at what he did, and he valued his tools as much as the next master craftsman.

Ron dropped the rifle's magazine the moment it ran empty. Marty was surprised when Ron produced a Glock before the magazine had a chance to touch the ground. He hadn't spotted the kid concealing a handgun.

 _"_ _They grow up so fast,"_ the former special forces officer thought to himself— only halfway joking.

Ron's growth over the past three years had been astounding. His success rate was nothing short of incredible; especially considering how he had to handicap himself while using Kim Possible as a cover. Marty thought that while Kim's celebrity had once been a great asset to Ron's operational cover, those days were rapidly coming to an end. Soon Kim would either join an organization like G.J., go to college, or find some other way to employ her considerable talents.

Marty knew that no matter what path she chose, her days as a smoke screen for Mossad's youngest assassin were numbered. Even if Team Possible did manage to stay together once they graduated high school, Marty knew how the extra level of scrutiny given to adults would make it impossible for Ron to remain operational. He wasn't particularly worried about this. Ron was young, but he was also tough and smart. He would suck it up and deal.

Mossad had been backing Ron for years. They had provided training, contacts, and experience. Over the past three years Ron had risen through the ranks of Israeli intelligence's most shadowy branch to become one of their most effective operatives. And after the events in Vietnam last year, Ron's status among the close-knit intelligence community had grown from merely extremely dangerous to legendary.

Ron rocked another magazine into the AR-15 and sent all thirty rounds into a single target over a quarter mile away. Ron's mastery over the semi-automatic rifle allowed him to make it seem as though the bullets were being fired in three long continuous bursts.

Marty thought that it was about time that he joined full-time.

* * *

The next morning Kim broke tradition and met Ron at his house instead of hers.

The tradition of Ron meeting Kim at her house and then walking her to school had started years ago in middle school. Neither of the friends had ever discussed the reasons for it. For Ron, it was simply that he had to pass Kim's home on the way to school anyway, and her Mom always made an amazing breakfast in the morning and was happy to feed him as well.

Kim though, had an aversion to the Stoppable house. She found it to be, well, depressing. The entire two bottom floors were kept clean and well ordered. It always smelled a like pine air freshener. There were no family pictures or personal touches except for a few knickknacks. The house was completely absent of personality except for Ron's attic loft. And even that felt more like an oasis than a home.

Ron's house wasn't a home, and it killed Kim that her friend had live like that.

Kim let herself in through the front door with her key and found Ron in the kitchen. Ron raised a hand away from his preparation of the omelets he was making.

"Hey K.P., want one?" he asked, gesturing to an already prepared breakfast.

The uneasiness Kim had felt dissipated at with the sight of her best friend.

"Sure," she answered.

"Cool," Ron said, "just let me finish with Rufus' and I'll start yours. Ham, onions, and peppers, but no cheese, right?"

"Please and thank you," chirped the redhead.

Ron grinned at her and placed the three-cheese and jalapeno omelet on the counter next to the sleeping naked mole rat. Rufus woke immediately when the smell of breakfast entered his hypersensitive nostrils, and literally dove into the omelet.

Kim went to the counter to join her smallest friend and waited to receive her breakfast. While she waited, Ron pulled a carton of orange juice and a jar of raspberry jam from the fridge. He poured the juice into glasses and spread the jam on toasted English muffins, and served both with a flourish.

Ron smiled at his best friend. He knew why she was here. And she knew that he knew why he was here.

 _"_ _Which leaves the question of who will crack first,"_ Ron thought to himself.

Ron ate a piece of his omelet. Kim bit off a piece of toast, and washed it down with a sip of O.J. Rufus had already devoured his breakfast and was now sleeping it off.

"So, what do you know Kim?" asked Ron.

Her poker face wasn't as good as his, but he figured that he owed her an explanation for yesterday's events. Besides, she was every bit as stubborn as he was. If he didn't give her something, they would be at breakfast until lunch.

Not that there was anything wrong with that.

"Well," Kim began, "I know that Bonnie's on a warpath. And I know that you have something to do with it. The weird thing is that Bonnie won't say what you did. Which, again, is really weird because she usually gives some type of narcissistic, self-serving, convoluted reason for being such a Queen Bitch."

Ron smiled, Kim usually wasn't profane -at least not in front of her family or the public- and it pleased him that she was comfortable enough with him that she spoke her uncensored thoughts.

"I went out with her older sister Connie. Apparently, Bonnie doesn't think that I'm good enough to date her, but she's too embarrassed to admit that I kissed a Rockwaller to say why she's after me. Not that it matters, because Connie went back to her college on Monday and one date isn't really enough to start a long-distance relationship."

Kim's face was gob smack. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open, and her nostrils were rapidly alternating between expanding and contracting.

Finally, she said in an astonished voice, "You went out with Bonnie's sister!"

Ron shrugged and replied, "Sure, she was smart and nice. I wasn't going to judge her just because she's related to Bonnie." Ron smirked, "Besides, even if she is the devil, Bonnie's hot— and she's the least attractive of the Rockwaller sister.

Kim rolled her eyes, "I'll take your word for it. So, Connie, not evil?"

Ron nodded, "Total sweetheart," he confirmed, "I ran into her at the Wilde play I was telling you about. After the play ended, I was a gentleman and took her out for baklava before taking her home."

Kim nodded along. Everything that Ron was telling her was absolutely true— even if it was only part of the truth. Ron had learned long ago that the best way to convince to believe something was to give her enough of the facts to draw own conclusions without giving her enough information so that she could assemble the entire picture.

"So basically, Bonnie decided that because her twenty-one-year-old sister decided to kiss an eighteen-year-old, she obviously needs revenge. God, what a bitch!"

Ron shrugged, nonplussed. He was used to Bonnie's petty power plays. They were annoying, but overall, he could tolerate them well enough.

Except when he had to defend himself from a group of thuggish bullies and crack a few heads. That was an threat to his operational security, and thus, could not be tolerated.

Ron gave Kim his most wolfishly charming smile, and asked, "How would you like to help me out with a _solution_ to our Queen Bee problem?"

Kim returned his predatory grin with one of her own, "I've never liked honey, always been more of a jam girl," she said, holding up her jam covered English muffin for emphasis, "besides, how can I say no to the birthday boy?"

* * *

Ron sat in Mary's kitchen. He was bored, but Marty had promised to make falafels and Syrian bread for his birthday, and Ron had the metabolism of a teenager. Besides, Ron was considered by many to be an amazing cook, and -as with so many things in his life- Marty had taught him everything he knew.

So he sat, and waited in hungry anticipation for the meal.

"Grab some of the IPA's out the fridge, will you?" Marty asked while pulling the pitas from the oven.

Ron got up and took out a pair of the New England made beers out of the fridge and then set them on the table. Then he took out the tahini sauce, and cucumbers, tomatoes, and lettuce— he put the sauce near the pale ales and got out a kitchen knife from a drawer so he could start chopping the vegetables.

For a while the pair worked silently on preparing the food. They had spent so much time together over the years that communication wasn't necessary. They had long since said nearly everything that was to be said.

Nearly everything.

Ron finished with the vegetables at about the same time that Marty finished frying the falafels. Ron put the chopped veggies in a bowl and Marty put a paper towel on a plate to absorb the grease before taking the food out of the frying pan.

The two began smearing tahini sauce on pita bread and fixing in the mixed vegetables and the falafels. Ron made an appreciative noise when he first bit into his meal, but other than that, the two men ate in silence.

Ron had finished his beer by the time that he was done with his third helping. Instead of getting another, he got up and pulled a bottle filled with amber liquid out of his backpack.

It was a Macallan 25-year-old Scotch whiskey. Marty raised an eyebrow. Ron smirked, it wasn't often that he was able to get such a visible reaction from the old soldier. For Marty, that eyebrow was the equivalent of a _squee_ from someone else.

Marty nodded, and retrieved a bottle of Glenmorangie 18 with a bow on it from the pantry, and Ron gave away more than a raised eyebrow. Marty put the bottle in Ron's backpack before opening the Macallan and pouring two glasses neat.

The men toasted, took in the nose, and drank.

The Macallan 25, for those fortunate few who are lucky enough it experience it, is exquisite.

It wasn't until the second round that Marty broke the silence.

"I heard that you had a run in last night."

Ron smirked, "Real neighborhood toughs," he said rolling his eyes, "relax, if anyone makes a fuss about it I'll just say that it's a teen-sidekick thing."

Marty thought about this for a moment before asking, "I heard you pulled a knife."

Ron shrugged, "Another teen-sidekick thing. Wade got it for me. The Griptillian isn't my favorite, but it's a solid Benchmade."

"And what does the redhead think about you having a weapon?" asked Marty.

Ron gave another shrug, "It was Kim's idea actually— apparently I'm not to be trusted with laser lipstick. But I still need thing to cut rope and stuff on missions… not that I mind the low tech. Laser lipstick is great, but it's a bit femme for me."

Ron took another sip of his scotch, "Besides, it's not like the guys who jumped me can make a big deal of it. If they say anything, they'll be admitting to aggravated assault. All I did was attempt to flee and then defend myself with my handy pocket tool. Maybe if I had used the knife in school…"

Ron left the statement hanging, not bothering to finish the hypothetical while there was still so much more scotch.

"I know," said Marty, "your fight doesn't bother me. The fact that you had to get involved with a direct confrontation at all is the problem."

Ron frowned, but gestured for Marty to continue with his reasoning.

Marty continued, "You're an incredible asset. As good or better than any other operative I've ever seen -except for your CQC- but the only thing that makes you a _unique_ asset is Kim Possible."

Ron put his glass on the table, and gave Marty the full attention of his mildly inebriated focus.

"Kim Possible hides you. She provides you with access that any intelligence agency in the world would— has killed for. Top secret nuclear bomb in a backpack, "accidently" kicked it into a volcano. Need a quick in and out of Iran at three A.M. on a Tuesday, easy. Need someone killed with _absolutely_ no one knowing how the hell it happened, Kim Possible is your ticket in and your ride out and she's your alibi. You don't need her to do what you do, but Mossad needs her to protect itself from the fallout of what you do."

"So," Marty continued, "when you slept with the sister of Kim Possible's biggest rival, it made some people unhappy."

Ron's eyes grew large, and then his mouth widened into a toothy grin, "Are you saying that my sex life is a matter of national security? Please tell me that this is what you're telling me."

Ron had a look of absolute delighted amusement.

Marty frowned, "This isn't a joke. I realize that Team Possible won't last forever, but we need to keep it going for as long as possible. Look, your close to the end of this. Don't fuck it up now."

Ron didn't like this conversation anymore. He liked being part of Team Possible. Not as much as he once had, but he loved Kim as much as he had loved anyone in his life -if not more- and the thought of losing his relationship with her terrified him.

Ron realized that it was irrational of him. He had been abusing Kim's trust for years. He had made her an unknowing party to the death and chaos he routinely sowed; but she was still his best friend. He loved her… even if he didn't trust her.

It was for this reason that Ron was worried about what would happen to their friendship should she ever learned the truth; if Kim ever found out about who he was and what he did, then it would be the end of Ron Stoppable. And all that he would have left over would be the assassin.

Ron looked Mart in the eyes, "Alright."

* * *

Twin shadows glided up the side of the large house.

It was a moonless night, and the weather was cold enough to be decidedly uncomfortable, but neither of the shadows showed any sign of discomfort.

One after the other, the shadows slipped in through the second-floor window to find themselves on the second floor of a well-decorated mini-mansion.

Dressed head-to-toe in black, the two crept down the hallway until they found the room of their victim. Once there, the larger of the two silently made his way to a queen-sized canopy bed on the far side of the room. He took out a Ziploc bag that was filled with a rag soaked with a clear, strong-smelling liquid. Ever so carefully, he removed the rag and held it over the nose and mouth of the bed's snoring occupant.

Bonnie Rockwaller never stirred as the chloroform entered her system.

Despite this, and the fact that the teenager was the home's sole occupant while her parents were dealing with an unexpected work-crisis, neither Kim nor Ron allowed themselves to relax. They both knew that no mission was really over until they were clear of the scene and resting comfortably back home.

So, they didn't speak as Kim slipped back out the window to retrieve their equipment for operation prank Bonnie.

Fast and quiet as a panther, Kim retrieved the two large sacks filled with the instruments of Bonnie's future torment. Kim handed off one of the sacks and a roll of heavy-duty tape to Ron, and the two got to work fixing the off-brand American Girl Dolls around Bonnie's room.

Kim taped a sombrero wearing doll to Bonnie's dresser. Ron taped one wearing traditional Native American garb and holding a tomahawk to Bonnie's canopy bed— so that it would be the first thing that she saw upon waking.

Kim fixed two more dolls -one wearing a kimono and one in gypsy clothes- to Bonnie's knickknack-slash-bookshelf.

Ron put a male doll, that was decked out in what Ron assumed to be traditional Dutch dress, on a swing that he had affixed to Bonnie's ceiling fan.

Kim placed a doll wearing a heavy Russian coat and hat by the window.

Ron placed one wearing a sarong on Bonnie's nightstand.

The two continued this for almost a half-hour. Taping, placing, and balancing the ethnically-themed dolls on every available surface of Bonnie's rather large room. When they ran out of space, they started to scatter the dolls on the floor; making delightful little scenes with them.

After they ran out of the forty or so dolls that they brought, Kim pulled out three compact -but powerful- speakers, and began to hide them about the room. Before she placed each one, Kim made sure that instead of Bonnie's alarm going off, each one would begin to play _It's a Small World After All_ synchronized in a continuous loop. Kim hid them so that even when they were found, Bonnie would have a hard time getting to them.

Meanwhile, Ron was amusing himself by hanging up national flags from around the world— _all over_ the room.

The entire operation took slightly less than twenty minutes.

Kim and Ron surveyed their work happily. Ron leaned in close to whisper in Kim's ear, "Let's go."

Kim shook her head once in the negative, "There's something that I need to take care of first," she whispered to Ron.

Kim quickly and quietly went to the bathroom off of Bonnie's room, and Ron tried very hard to ignore this obvious breach of protocol. Everyone knows to use the bathroom _before_ the mission.

Kim was only gone for a moment. Once she was back, the two shadows left without another word and slipped out the hall window into the inviting night.

* * *

Montgomery Fiske grimaced as he sipped the foul gin.

He missed his Macallan scotch dearly, and he despised gin. But he knew that when one was on the run from the law, one could not always enjoy all the luxuries one was do.

So, he made himself comfortable in the lazy-boy recliner and went through his operational notes. They were good, everything was on schedule. He had faith that the operation would be a success, and while it would not complete his ultimate goals, it would bring him the resources he needed to attain his destiny.

Still, he had not survived as long as he had, against the odds that he had, by being complacent. Fiske began to outline possible escape plans on his tablet. Plotting escape routes, checking safehouses, wiring cash transfers.

Fiske had done this a few times before.

He felt a pair of chubby arms drape around his neck, and forced himself to relax. Every woman was beautiful in some way, but DNAmy's beauty was strictly internal. A gifted geneticist who was also happened to be a type three savant— the woman was truly magnificent. If she had been able to explain her work to the masses, she would have won enough Nobel prizes to be able to purchase a private island solely with the prize money.*

Fiske allowed himself a small smile. He didn't pretend to understand the woman's fascination with him, but he would admit that the adoration of a mind like Amy's was a considerable ego-boost. Not to mention useful; using DNAmy's expertise he had gained the proportional strength of a monkey. More than enough to put him on the same level as any of the physically enhanced excepti.

Fiske's smile turned into a smirk. He had bested the greatest -or at least most famous- jouster* just last week! Then Fiske's smirk faded, and his expression darkened; Kim Possible's would have been destroyed had it not have been for the interference of the Pretender.

"Something wrong my love?" a surprisingly sultry voice whispered in Fiske's ear.

Fiske didn't look up as he felt the flabby flesh sort of "slushe" back into DNAmy's arm. He had witnessed the metamorphosis often enough to have grown used to it. If not exactly comfortable with it.

DNAmy's bones cracked, skin-and-gristle shifted grotesquely, and the sounds here shifting body made would have made a lesser man cover his ears in revulsion.

Fiske didn't comment as the short, dumpy women changed before his eyes. The entire process took only three minutes -give or take seven to nine seconds- and left behind a beautiful, petite girl with pixyish good looks who looked scarcely old enough to drink.

DNAmy was gone for the moment, leaving only… Amy.

Not exactly the subtlest change of a name, but when one loses over a hundred pounds and a good twenty years, it doesn't take much to alter one's identity.

Fiske's smile returned. Amy's metamorphism was horrifying to watch; but it was not without benefits. Escaping custody and eluding law enforcement aside, the process left Amy feeling healthier, stronger, and generally better than she had ever felt before!

The sex was better too.

Which was fortunate. In order to mitigate the discomfort involved with rapid structural changes to her physiology, Amy had initially turned off her pain receptors. However, she had still felt mild lingering pain for some time after the transformation was finished. So, she had built in an endorphin-release system similar to the elusive 'runner's high'. This had the unexpected -but in Fiske's estimation, not unwelcome- side effect of making Amy, well, rather randy after her metamorphosis.

Fiske felt Amy's soft mouth nibble at his ear, "Come here cuddlebuddy."

Fiske debated telling her not to call him that. Again. But then Amy sucked on his ear lobe, and he decided that there were things he would rather be doing.

Like Amy.

* * *

Fiske woke slowly. As he often did when he had time in the morning.

Beside him Amy read through a short stack of folders, unconsciously gnawing at her lower lip. A habit she did unconsciously when something interested her. It was a thing that Fiske found endearing.

Fiske slipped out of bed silently and returned a few minutes later with coffee.

Amy was too engrossed in her work to notice when Fiske tried to hand her a mug, so he just put it within arm's reach where he knew she would find it and drink it mindlessly. Fiske laid down next to her and got out his tablet to continue with their escape routes.

They made an odd couple; a genetically-enhanced monkey mystic, and a rouge Dr. Moreau-esque geneticist. But evil plots aside, they weren't actually dysfunctional. They just had a highly unusual -not to mention illegal- profession.

"The results for Project Mangani look promising." Amy idly told her lover once she had finished off the last file.

"The werewolf thing?" asked Fiske in his clipped, upper-class British accent.

"No!" answered Amy hotly, "I've told you how difficult it is to cross-mutate a human being with non-primates. A primate-lupine hybrid used this early in the development of the viral carrier is totally unnecessary. Not to mention dangerous."

Fiske nodded. He had realized long ago that his and Amy's fields of study were dramatically different. She was as clueless about archaeology and folklore as he was about her work. But it still occasionally rankled that he knew that if she cared enough, she could progress nearly as far in his field as he had. While he doubted that, if presented with a high school biology test today, he would be able to pass.

"But it's working?" Fiske asked carefully.

Amy blushed at the intensity of her outburst, "Yes," she answered primly, "everything seems to be in order if the initial tests are to be believed."

Fiske nodded in satisfaction and draped an arm over her shoulder, allowing Amy to snuggle-up closer to him. Fiske smiled. Everything was going according to schedule. Soon, he would be able to destroy the pretender, reclaim what was his, and achieve his destiny.

Fiske kissed Amy's forehead, and reflected to himself how very fortunate he was to have Amy to share his great future with.

* * *

As Ron walked into school the next day, he noticed that something was off.

There was a lot of laughing and whispering going; even more than was the usual at a high school.

Ron scanned the hallway, and saw that the attention was centered on a girl wearing an oversized black hoodie with the hood pulled down. As the girl walked to class, a freshman mathlete tugged down the hood— revealing Bonnie.

Bonnie with her hair dyed bright fire-hydrant red.

Ron choked on his own spit, and coughed several times before he dissolved into a fit of hilarity. His whole body shook as he tried in vain to suppress his laughter. Tears escaped his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

He nearly peed himself.

"Sorry my present's a bit late," said a voice beside Ron, who was hunched over and struggling to breathe between his fits of mirth.

Kim wore a grin that would have suited a cat that ate the canary, the fish, and managed to pin the whole thing on the neighbor's dog.

Kim gave her best and oldest friend a hug, "Happy Birthday Ron."

* * *

 **Wow, that took forever to write. Hope that it was worth it though.**

 **What happens next time? Find out sometime in the future, same naked molerat-time, same naked molerat-channel.**

 **I obviously don't own the Small World ride, that is owned by Disney as well.**


	7. Attack of the Were-Monkeys

**The Kidon**

 **Chapter Seven**

 **Attack of the Were-Monkeys**

* * *

A loud buzzing woke Ron up slightly after 2 A.M.

Waking up between the hours of two-AM and five-AM is rarely leads to anything good, and when Ron checked the caller ID from his buzzing smartphone, he knew right away that this was not going to be one of the rare exceptions.

"What?" he asked groggily.

"Problem," Marty responded, "get moving."

And then he hung up.

Ron cursed profusely in three languages.

But he was a good soldier, so he dressed in jeans, a dark grey hoodie, work boots, and slipped a Glock 26 subcompact 9mm into an ankle holster before getting on his motorcycle to ride to the predetermined meeting location.

In this case, the location was a small airstrip about twenty minutes outside of Middleton. Marty had drilled into him dozens of code phrases from early on. If he had wanted Ron to meet him at his house for example, he would have said, "We have an issue,", if Ron had to bug out, then he would have asked to return a copy of _The Hobbit_ that he had borrowed. It went on like that.

Former Spec-Op soldiers turned shadow-operatives took paranoia to whole new levels.

Ron sped through his search-and-detection-route on the back of his bike. Only when he was certain that no one was tailing him did he rev the engine of his Indian motorcycle and speed away towards the meet.

Marty was waiting at the airstrip with a large duffel bag in one hand, and a beige folder in the other.

Ron pulled up a few feet in front of him and removed his helmet, "What, no coffee?" he asked.

Marty smiled— having long since grown used to Ron's propensity towards snark before a dangerous mission. And in their business, nothing was more dangerous than the unknown.

To help alleviate this, Marty handed over the dossier. Ron flipped it open and skimmed the mission overview. He paled.

Marty clapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of comfort, "You don't have to do it, you know. Management can find someone else."

Ron shook his head emphatically. "No." He declared flatly, "I mean, I've been recommending this for years. These two are just too dangerous, not just to Israel, but to the world."

He gave Marty a grin that looked a little-too forced, "Besides, you know me, blood like ice. I can do it, and I'll deal with the fallout if I have too."

Marty nodded his respect and said, "You're a freaking creamsicle kid."

Ron's smile relaxed. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they did look cold. It would have been difficult for anyone who wasn't close to Ron to spot the changes: he was more relaxed, he didn't stand any taller, but he still managed to look more confident. There was something eager and anticipatory in his movements.

Ron looked like a predator about to hunt.

Ron gave Marty a smile that would have made anyone else wet themselves. Then he grabbed the duffel out of Marty's hand, and bounded towards the plane.

Once he was in the plane's small cabin, he burst out laughing.

There was a bag of what smelled like hot blueberry muffins sitting next to a travel cup of coffee on his seat.

* * *

Ron jumped out of the plane.

He really wished that people would stop making him do that.

As he plummeted towards the small clearing that had been designated as drop zone, he tried to get himself in the right headspace for what he was supposed to do. He had killed more people than he cared to remember, but this time was different.

Killing Monkey Fist and DNAmy would be the first time that he would assassinate someone who knew in his life as Ron Stoppable.

Ron reminded himself that the two were perhaps the single biggest threat presented by Kim's enemies. Monkey Fist had knowledge and control over forces that the most brilliant savants in the world could only describe as _magic_. And on top of that he was former SAS, England's elite Special Air Service. A special-ops force that Ron knew could easily rival anything the U.S. or Israel could field.

DNAmy was even worse.

Ron theorized that if she ever decided to create one of her mutant hybrids that was capable of reproduction, then it could potentially rival a nuclear bomb in its destructive capabilities. A biological weapon of mass destruction that could destroy entire ecosystems or overrun continents with horrors straight out of a Lovecraft story.

The assassin landed silently and began to cut the parachute cord.

He had his orders. He had his targets. He knew what needed to be done.

The assassin began to check his gear. His intelligence knew little about the capabilities of his targets hideout, so Mossad had equipped him with a fairly standard assault kit.

A suppressed M4A1 carbine equipped with an Aimpoint red-dot sight, a suppressed 9mm Glock 19 as a sidearm, a SOG combat knife, a pair of Spyderco folding knives, a night-vision monocular, a IIIA1 bulletproof vest, and a first aid kit.

Additionally, there was a pair of combat boots, a pair of dark fatigues, a pair of shooting gloves, a web-belt, and several magazines of subsonic ammunition for the firearms.

The Assassin had checked all his gear on the plane. So, he stealthily headed his way through the woods towards his targets.

Moving through a heavily wooded area in the dark was hard. It was even harder to do it silently. The footing was treacherous, there were annoying animals, and it was surprisingly easy to walk into a tree… even with night vision.

So, the assassin went slowly. Pausing often to check his surroundings. Even crawling occasionally. He remembered one of his trainer's favorite sayings,

 _"_ _Slow is smooth, smooth is fast."_

The assassin was very smooth. It took him little time to arrive at his target's hideout. Still, the assassin didn't go in. He worked his way around the perimeter slowly, the last thing he wanted any surprises.

It took him over an hour of circling the dwelling before he was ready to make his move.

He chambered a round and then slung the carbine over his back. He crawled towards the side of the cabin which had the exposed brick of a chimney and began to climb.

The assassin scurried up the side of the building like a spider-monkey. He had planned to avoid the alarms on the bottom windows by going through a window on the upper floor, but his entry window was locked.

The assassin cursed while dangling off the roof. Getting a window open silently while hanging off a roof would be tricky, and because he needed one arm to keep himself from falling the twenty feet to the ground, he would have to do it one handed.

The assassin began to reach into a pouch on his belt for his lock-picking kit; but then he felt it.

A noticeable tremor coming from inside the house. A noticeable tremor coming towards him!

The assassin didn't think, he just acted. He let go of the roof and fell the two stories to the earth. The assassin threw himself into a roll the moment his boots hit the ground.

It still hurt though.

The assassin didn't care. Because before he could so much as spit out a single curse, the second story wall of the building exploded outward as something large and black burst through it.

The assassin's reaction was smooth and instinctual. He brought up the carbine in an instant, flicked the selector switch to full-auto, and let loose with a stream of 5.56x45mm hollow-point rounds into the thing.

Luckily, it hadn't calculated its jump to fall on the assassin. It fell no more than two yards from the assassin's spot on the grass. It rose the moment that it touched the ground and whirled to face its attacker.

The assassin shot it some more.

Bullets raked across the things wide chest. Stitching it from the middle of its belly to the crown of its enormous skull. Even with the suppressor, the subsonic twenty-caliber rounds made a lot of noise.

Fortunately, the sound of both the gunfire and the beasts dying scream were drowned out.

 _Unfortunately_ , it was drowned out by several other screams. And somehow the assassin doubted that whatever was making enough noise to drown out gunfire and a dying monster was friendly.

The assassin dropped the magazine from the M4A1 and inserted another just as something large and dark and terrifying charged out of the dense brush right at him.

It was followed by another.

And another. And then another.

The assassin opened fired.

Moving on long training and instinct, he fired a three-round burst on the nearest as it crossed the distance towards him at an alarming rate of speed. It didn't fall, but he switched targets to the next nearest anyway, and fired off another burst. The recoil from the last burst had moved the carbine's barrel up, so that the bullets tore into the face and head of the monster. The creature behind it slammed into it at about thirty-miles-an-hour; this bought the assassin another few precious seconds.

The assassin re-sighted on the nearest creature just in time for it to grab the carbine by its long suppressor. The force of the creature's grip was incredible. Enough to pull the assassin off his feet and force him to one knee.

The assassin pulled the combat knife from its sheath on his left hip and cut through the sling that connected the M4A1 to his chest. Then he sprang up into the _much_ taller creature and buried his blade under the things chin - straight into its brain.

At least, that's where the assassin thought that its brain was.

The creature fell with the assassin on top of it. The assassin drew his pistol automatically, only to have it slapped out of his hand when the third creature knocked aside the Glock's suppressor.

The assassin dove away out of the monster's reach.

He never touched the ground.

The creature snatched the assassin out of midair and threw him like a sack of rice twenty feet away. The assassin rolled several times but didn't get up.

He didn't have time. The creature was coming right at him, and it was coming fast.

The creature was ten feet away.

Still lying on the ground, the assassin scrambled to pull the Glock 26 holdout pistol from his ankle holster.

The creature was five feet away.

The assassin aimed for the creature's overly-large head.

The creature was with an arm's length.

The assassin fired off the entire magazine as fast as he could pull the trigger. Ten rounds of 9mm hollow-points entered the creature's brain; and if that didn't exactly kill it immediately, then it was pretty damn close.

The assassin dropped the Glock 26's magazine and reloaded with one of the fifteen-rounders that were intended for the Glock 19.

After waiting for a moment to make sure that nothing was going to leap out of the forest to try and eat him, the assassin rushed to retrieve his other weapons. Only when he had the M4A1 in hand and reloaded did he allow himself the luxury of a question.

 _"_ _What the fuck?!"_ thought the assassin.

The assassin collected his sidearm and knife before pulling his flashlight and going over the inspect the first of the monstrosities.

The one he came to was rolled halfway over on its side. Ron put a pair of shots into its head with his carbine before grabbing its shoulder to leverage it onto its back.

The creature was enormous! If it wasn't quite seven-feet tall, then it was certainly tall enough to play for the NBA. Moreover, it was laden with layer upon layer of thick, hard muscle. The kind of musculature that is generally associated with champion bodybuilders on juice.

But the creature's immense size wasn't the strangest thing.

It was covered in a blanket of thick dark hair.

No. Not hair exactly; fur.

The monster's hands (for the assassin could only call it a monster after examining it), they were disproportionally large. And they were tipped with three-inch talons that appeared to have been artificially sharpened. Although, the assassin would be the first to admit that he wasn't an expert on nail care.

The assassin left the body where it was. There was no way that he could physically move the thing without some kind of help. And the assassin wanted to get a look at the face of one of the monsters before he started doing a sweep for Monkey Fist and DNAmy.

The assassin didn't think that they were still at the hideout. He could think of a few reasons that could explain their absence, and none of them were good.

When an operation went this bad this quickly, it was usually due to bad luck, bad intel, or incompetence.

Usually.

The very last thing the assassin wanted to believe was that there was a leak in the extremely tight-knit and secretive assassination branch of Mossad's intelligence operation. But getting jumped by a group of B-horror-movie monsters made him suspicious.

The creatures hadn't left signs of activity outside of the cabin. And the assassin hypothesized that things of that size must eat a lot. There were no signs of foraging, or the excrement that one would imagine that the creature would leave.

The most disturbing thing that the assassin found about the creature was its ruined face. Contrary to the assassin's expectations, the creature' s mouth was filled with large flat teeth, more suited for grinding plants than tearing flesh. Except… the assassin leaned in closer to the creature's shattered skull, yes, part of the creatures back teeth had been filed to a razor-sharp point.

The assassin sat back on his haunches. This was confusing, DNAmy was too good a geneticist to have to resort to primitive dentistry. He couldn't imagine what would possessed someone to stick their hands down one of the creature's throats, but the assassin figured that whatever it was wasn't anything good. He pitied the poor bastard who was going to have to deal with this clusterfuck.

The assassin cursed silently in Farsi to himself. He was going to have to report this to Mossad. Mossad would want the matter taken care of quickly, quietly, and permanently. There were very few operatives who would be able to handle this.

"Fuck," the assassin swore, why kid himself? The moment Mossad received his report, he would be assigned to "handle it". And the worst part was -the single worst thing to come out of this entire royally screwed up scenario- was that Marty was still going to bitch about him not completing the mission.

* * *

Marty poured him a glass filled with the last bit of Macallan scotch. Okay, so Marty hadn't been _that_ pissed that the mission failed. He hadn't been happy, but Ron thought that he was more upset about the bad intel than anything else.

It was nice to work for someone who got it.

They sat in Marty's living room. Ron had been able to grab a quick shower before seeing to the minor wounds that he had accumulated during his latest brush with death. Still, Marty hadn't wasted much time with the debriefing. Ron always found after-action reports tedious, doubly so because Marty often insisted on getting his account immediately unless there was a pressing medical reason not to.

Ron took a sip of scotch before asking, "So, what's the next move?"

Marty shrugged his large shoulders from his place in the easy chair across form Ron, "Now? I kick this upstairs and we wait for orders."

Ron frowned, "Are we sure that's the best idea? I mean, we have no real idea about what these things are capable of. I barely managed to take them out while I was heavily armed and expecting a trap. And if DNAmy—"

Marty cut him off, "I know. I know. Look, we've heard your concerns about the danger of one of her creature's reproducing. And I agree. Mossad realizes the potential danger, we all do. You've brought it up enough. The Americans can handle it. What's more pressing is the creatures' creator. …And Fiske too."

Ron's frown deepened, "What's the deal with Mossad suddenly wanting those two eliminated anyway?" he asked curiously, "…Not that I'm complaining," Ron finished hastily.

He had been recognized the danger that DNAmy posed immediately after reading her file. As for Fiske… well, after Yamanouchi, Fiske had made things personal for Ron. And Ron hated mixing his personal life with work.

Marty shrugged, "Don't know, could be a lot of things. Doesn't really matter though. Like you've been saying, they need to go. They're not the worst people that we've ever gone against, hell they're probably not even really the most dangerous, but they are _fucking_ unpredictable. And that will get you killed more often than anything else."

Ron nodded, he had used similar methods throughout his career. Attack when people least expect it, attack from angles they don't see, attack in ways they can't predict. It was all fairly-standard tactical doctrine.

"I don't like being a mushroom," Ron complained.

Marty laughed, "Not a fan of being kept in the dark and being fed on bullshit? Join the club."

"So," Ron asked, "what do we do?"

Marty leaned back in his chair and took another sip of scotch. "Now, we wait until more intel becomes available."

Ron sighed. He hoped that being patient would pay off.

* * *

 **That took longer than expected...**


End file.
